UC-NRLF 


SB    27    3fll 


The 

YALE  RECORD 

"Rook  of  Verse 


EX    LIBRIS 

THE    UNIVERSITY 

OF    CALIFORNIA 

FROM  THE  FUND 
ESTABLISHED  AT  YALE 

IN  1927  BY 
WILLIAM  H.  CROCKER 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1882 
SHEFFIELD  SCIENTIFIC  SCHOOL 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  ^  /  « 

Y/g 


THE  YALE  RECORD 
BOOK  OF  VERSE 

1872-1922 


THE  YALE  RECORD 

BOOK  OF  VERSE 

1872- 1922 


CHOSEN  &  EDITED  BY 

FRANCIS  W.  BRONSON 

THOMAS  CALDECOT  CHUBB 

CYRIL  HUME 


NEW  HAVEN 

PUBLISHED  FOR  THE  YALE  RECORD  BY 
THE  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON  •  HUMPHREY  MILFORD  •  OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXXII 


COPYRIGHT  1922  BY 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


TO 

THE  EDITORS  OF  THE 
YALE  RECORD 

1872-1921 


646534 


"I  Have  the  Honor  Of." 

IT  was  a  happy  idea  of  Mr.  Francis  Bronson  and  his  col- 
leagues on  the  editorial  board  of  the  Tale  Record  for  the 
Class  of  1922,  to  blow  the  dust  off  the  files  of  fifty  years, 
and  save  from  the  shadow  of  oblivion  verses  that  echo  the 
laughter  of  twelve  college  generations.  Humor  and  song 
are  eternal  expressions  of  University  Youth.  What- 
ever undergraduate  conversation  may  lack  in  weight  of 
thought  and  height  of  theme,  it  abounds  in  humor — 
humor  as  harmless  as  it  is  genuine.  And  it  is  as  natural  for 
undergraduates  to  write  verse  as  it  is  for  them  to  sing  in 
the  shower-bath.  All  boys  are  poets  at  heart. 

This  does  not  mean  that  they  all  compose  melodiously. 
It  is  only  at  rare  intervals  that  we  read  a  new  poem  that 
we  should  like  to  read  again.  But  in  college  life,  we  know 
that  if  adolescence  has  not  been  metrically  impressive, 
maturity  will  be  equally  barren.  There  are  obscure  stu- 
dents in  universities  who  later  develop  into  famous  men 
of  business,  men  of  science,  men  of  politics,  men  of  letters, 
whose  ability  is  unsuspected  both  by  classmates  and  by 
teachers;  but  there  are  no  obscure  poets.  Men  do  not  be- 
come poets  after  twenty-two  any  more  often  than  they 
become  pianists. 

The  best  verse  in  this  volume  is  that  written  by  stu- 
dents who  are  now  professional  poets — such  as  Brian 
Hooker,  W.  R.  Benet,  and  Stephen  V.  Benet.  But  there 
are  many  other  metrical  conceits,  both  pretty  and  witty, 
that  exhibit  either  the  fundamental  humor  of  youth,  or 

[7] 


that  allude  to  some  contemporary  object  of  mirth.  This 
little  book,  therefore,  has  a  value  apart  from  its  merits  as 
a  sheaf  of  light  verse;  it  is  a  contribution  to  the  history 
of  fun  at  Yale.  American  college  humorous  publications 
do  well  to  confine  themselves  chiefly  to  subjects  of  local 
interest  and  importance;  while  some  of  these  pages  are 
cheerful  reading  anywhere,  most  of  them  will  appeal 
mainly  to  the  students  and  alumni  of  Yale. 

WM.  LYON  PHELPS. 
Tale  University, 
18  August  1921. 


[8] 


of  Contents. 

PAGE 

Abbreviated  Song,  An  .......  75 

Adieu.  William  Rose  Benet  .          .          .          .          .          .104 

Alone  with  Hay  Fever  at  Any  Summer  Resort.  G.  M.  M.     .  66 

And  Pity  'Tis,  'Tis  True 63 

Analogy  to  a  Country  Churchyard  .....  75 

At  Farmington     ........  37 

Autumn  Girl,  The         .......  50 

Ballad 28 

Ballade.  F.  W.  Bronson         ......  33 

Ballade  in  Hope  of  April.  Stephen  Vincent  Benet       .          .  67 

Ballade  of  Lost  Ladies,  A.  Elliot  E.  Cohen         ...  77 

Ballade  of  My  Roommate.  T.  C.  Chubb  ....  84 

Ballade  of  Reminiscences       ......  53 

Ballade  of  the  Dreamland  Rose.  W.  Brian  Hooker     .          .  56 

Ballade  of  the  Favorite  Briar          .....  94 

Ballade  of  the  Finishing-School  Girl.  Stephen  Vincent  Benet  27 

Ballade  of  the  Summer  Girl  ......  69 

Bashful  Ballad,  A 21 

Better  Be  Careful          .......  25 

Boarding  School  Girl,  The     ......  38 

Brutus  Cassius.  /.  S.  R.  .          .          .          .          -83 

Complementary  Colors            ......  46 

Demosthenes  and  Cicero.  Stephen  Vincent  Benet         .          .  42 
Drinking  Song.  C.  S.     .           .           .          .          .          .          -35 

Dyspeptic  Cannibal,  The        ......  18 

Elegy  in  a  Princeton  Churchyard.  W .  Brian  Hooker  .          .  13 

Epilogue.  J.  G.  R.         .          .          .          .          .          .          .  103 

Female  of  the  Species,  The     ......  22 

Frolicsome  Echo,  A.  V. 31 

Frustra        .........  20 

[9] 


PAGE 

Fussing  the  Game          .......       57 

Fussing  the  Game.  /.  W .  Blair       .          .          .          .          .101 

Game  and  the  Poets,  The.  Stephen  Vincent  Benet       .          .        15 
Graeco-African  Romance,  A  .  .          .          .          .          -36 

Geldeslied   .........        40 

Habet  .  .          .          .  .  .          .          .          -91 

Hard  Luck.  David  G.  Carter  .....        97 

Harvard  Changes  to  a  Richer  Red — "Arterial  Blood"  .        85 

Harvard's  Warning  to  Our  Prom.  Girls  .  .  .          -17 

Her  Answer.  E.  L.  M.  .......       76 

Her  Gentle  Touch         ........        40 

His  Mistake         ........        19 

Human  Nature    ........        76 

I  Had  Never  Had  It.  N.  A.  B 98 

If  You  Were  I! 15 

In  Ye  Olde  Dayes.  T.  C.  Chubb 96 

Jones.  W.  Benton         .......      100 

Josh,  Jane,  and  Jake,  or  The  Wooer's  Woe.  Howard  S. 

Buck    .........       93 

Karovitchiouowski          .......        47 

L'Amour  du  Fresh         .......        60 

Last  Dance,  The 53 

Lent  ..........       63 

Lenten  Rhyme,  A.  Stephen  Vincent  Benet          ...       50 
Lime  Rickey         ........       87 

Lit  Poem,  A.  A.  W 81 

Lit  Poet,  The.  Lawrence  Mason       .....        78 

Love  at  School     .          .          .          .          .          .          .          -59 

Maudlinlay  ........       54 

Mere  Matter  of  Proposing,  A.  John  Farrar       ...       68 

Mistletoe,  The 46 

Modern  Way,  The.  M.  K.  S 103 

Modest  Poet,  The          .          .          .          .          .          .          -91 

Music  Plays,  The.  /.  W.  Blair 74 

Musings  of  a  Discreet  Bachelor.  S.  V.  Hopkins         .          .       98 

[10] 


PAGE 

My  Remington.  F.  W.  Branson     .  73 

November  24       ........       88 

On  Being  Insolvent  in  the  Middle  of  the  Term  80 

On  First  Looking  at  Osborn  Hall.  Cyril  Hume         .          .       61 
Ottoman  Oracle,  An  .  .  .          .  .          .89 

Perfectly  True 25 

Popularity  ........        30 

Popular  War  Idyll.  L.  E.  M.  Meyer       ....       62 

Prom,  The.  /.  S.  B 63 

Rara  Avis,  The   ........        45 

Remembrance.  Lawrence  Mason      .....        33 

Rondeau.  Loring  M.  Staples  .....        48 

Rondeau      .........        92 

Rubaiyat  of  Over  Khutter,  The       .          .          .          .          .41 

Seashore  Ballade.  Loring  M.  Staples        ....        72 

Sheff  Rush,  The 49 

Snake,  The.  Cyril  Hume         ......       87 

Snakes  Cause  a  Lot  of  Trouble.  Stephen  Vincent  Benet       .       82 

Speaking  Cereally.  /.  C.  #.,  Jr 70 

Syllabic  Symposium,  A  .          .          .          .          .          .51 

Swan  Song  of  the  Sword,  The.  Edward  S.  Paine       .          .        26 

Tertiary  Tragedy,  A 58 

Thoughts  upon  a  Classmate's  Announcement  of  His  En- 
gagement. W.  B.  L.  .          .          .          .          -79 

Time's  Revenges  .......       39 

To  a  Debutante.  W.  B.  L.     .          .          .          .          .          -34 

Trio-Lady  .........       45 

Two  Games          ........       44 

Vacation.  D.  .          .          .          .          .          .  71 

Vision.  /.  A.  Thomas  .          .          .          .          .          .          .102 

Wander  Song.  Stephen  Vincent  Benet       .          .          .          .24 

Warning  to  Heelers.  "The  Editors"         ....       80 

While  Smoke  Skeins  Curl.  /.  W.  Blair     ....        43 

Year's  End.  J.  W.  Blair 95 

[11] 


Elegy  in  a  Princeton  Churchyard. 

The  whistle  shrills  the  note  of  closing  play, 
The  roaring  crowd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  Yale  man  wends  his  wild  exuberant  way 
And  leaves  the  field  to  doggrel  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  purple  landscape  on  my  sight 
And  all  the  air  to  evening  zephyrs  tunes, 

Save  where  the  nighthawk  wheels  its  mumbling  flight 
And  glassy  tinklings  rise  from  far  saloons. 

Beneath  these  empty  stands,  these  goal-posts'  shade 
Where  heaved  the  play  in  many  a  struggling  heap, 

Each  in  his  orange  sweater  lifeless  laid — 
The  vanished  kickers  of  the  pigskin  sleep. 

The  joyous  light  of  the  victorious  morn, 

The  coaches  clamoring  from  the  training-shed, 

The  crowd's  oration  on  the  glad  tin  horn 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

Oft  did  the  tackle  to  their  rushes  yield, 

Their  tandems  oft  the  stubborn  line  have  broke — 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  train  afield! 

How  bowed  West  Point  before  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Columbia  mock  their  bootless  toil, 

Their  paltry  conquest  and  their  fractured  fame, 

Nor  Cornell  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  game. 

[13] 


Can  flowing  bowl  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  their  bosoms  bring  their  wonted  beat? 
Can  vain  excuse  provoke  the  slumbering  dust, 

Or  laughter  light  the  darkness  of  defeat*? 

Perchance  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  Poe  that  ended  ere  he  well  began, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Wheeler,  all  dismayed, 
Some  new  Lamar,  perchance,  who  also  ran. 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  things  passed  away 
Dost  love  to  learn  each  dismal  doom  forlorn — 

Approach  and  read  (if  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Carved  on  the  fence  beneath  yon  aged  thorn : 

The  Epitaph. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  flexile  neck 
A  youth  to  football  and  to  fame  unknown, 

Fair  fortune  of  his  hopes  did  little  reck, 
And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose 

Nor  draw  his  fumbles  from  oblivious  land; 

There  they  alike  in  charnel  calm  repose 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Princeton  stand. 

W.  BRIAN  HOOKER. 


If  Too  Were  I! 

If  you  were  I  this  rondeau  free 
Unto  your  eye  would  seem  to  be 

A  tripping,  skipping,  blithesome  verse 
Of  fancy  light  and  language  terse — 
A  type  of  purest  poesy. 

If  I  were  you  I  might  agree 
With  what  I  fear  you  think  of  me, 
But  at  my  lines  there'd  be  no  curse 
If  you  were  I. 

And  so,  O  critic,  kindly  see 

That  virtue  lies  in  charity: 

To  me  these  lines  that  I  rehearse, 

If  I  were  you,  would  be  much  worse ; 

But  ponder  what  to  you  they'd  be 
If  you  were  I. 


The  Game  and  the  Poets. 

Horace  Forgets  All  About  It. 

The  garnet — oh,  rare !  A  gloomy  pyre 
Are  Princeton's  hopes  tonight,  by  Venus ! 

But — come  and  draw  your  chair  up  nigher, 
And  talk,  Maecenas ! 

The  game — why  care,  sweet,  for  Fame's  jump? 

Love's  the  one  sport  not  strained  or  showy! 
There  no  one  bellows,  "Kill  the  ump ! !" 

Kiss  me,  Philoe ! 


The  game — oh,  can  it!     Get  me,  scout*? 

I'm  tired !    All  strife  was  made  for  scorning ! 
Come  on,  let's  get  the  bottle  out ! 

We'll  drink  till  morning! 

Robert  Burns  Almost  Gets  There. 

Such  rantin'  and  dantin' 

The  college  laddies  made ! 
Such  dirlin'  and  skirl  in' 

It  struck  me  sair  afraid ! 
I  drew  my  wee  bit  flaskie  oot 

And  swigged  the  whuskey  braid ! 

Such  pourin'  and  soarin' 

My  head  felt  at  the  brew ! 
My  wits  went  oot  explorin', 

I  kenn'd  na  what  to  do, — 
For  the  bleachers  fou'  were  roarin' 

And  I  was  roarin'  fou' ! 

John  Masefield  Extends  the  Everlasting  Mercy 
to  the  Tiger. 

From  '96  to  nineteen  blank 

My  conduct  was  described  as  rank. 

From  nineteen  blank  to  1905 

Men  wondered  why  they  let  me  live, 

I  cut  my  aged  mother's  throat, 

I  acted  like  a  bloody  goat; 

And  that  I  weren't  no  blooming  parson 

I  showed  by  piracy  and  arson ! 

From  1905  to  1910 

I  roared  'round  on  the  loose  again ! 

[16] 


All  day  I'd  booze,  or  chew,  or  smoke 

Heroin,  hasheesh,  hop  and  coke. 

On  to  '15  I  plunged  in  revel, 

I  sold  my  soul  unto  the  devil, — 

And  what  I  did,  in  slums  and  bars, 

I  mercifully  show  by  stars ! 

*          *          *          *         *         *         * 

By  then  I'd  used  up  all  my  tricks, 

"I'm  bloody  in  a  bloody  fix !" 

I  said — and  searched  the  law-books  through 

To  find  some  final  crime  to  do, 

The  one  huge,  unforgiven  sin 

That  bloody  rots  the  heart  within ! 

The  sin  that  like  a  steel-tight  jersey 

Removes  you  from  eternal  mercy ! 

I  bloody  shrank  a  bit  at  first 

To  crown  my  horrors  with  a  worst ! 

But  soon  I  yielded.  Vileness  filled  me, 

I  went  to  Princeton — and  it  killed  me ! 

STEPHEN  VINCENT  BENET, 


Harvard's  Warning  to  Our  Prom.  Girls. 

"  'Tis  friend  Lampoon  the  giftee  gies  us 
Tae  see  oursel's  as  Harvard  sees  us !" 

I 

In  their  prison  cells  they  sit, 

Thinking,  Brickley  dear,  of  you, 

And  their  hopes  of  vict'ry  flown  so  far  away; 

And  the  tears  they  fill  their  eyes 

[17] 


Spite  of  all  that  they  can  do 

As  they  try  to  cheer  the  Brothers  and  be  gay. 

Then — stamp,  stamp,  stamp,  the  boys  go  marching, 

Two  by  two  you  see  them  trail ; 

For  the  wearers  of  the  Blue, 

Oh,  such  gruesome  things  they  do — 

'Tis  the  soul-destroying  atmosphere  of  Yale ! 

II 

When  you  mention  It  they  rise 

And  depart  with  solemn  eyes; 

If  you're  dancing,  they  will  leave  you  standing  there. 

From  the  place  they  hide  their  pins 

To  their  squarely  Yale-cut  chins, 

They  will  shudder  and  will  cut  you  with  a  stare ! 

Then — stamp,  stamp,  stamp,  the  boys  go  marching, 

Out  the  door  you'll  see  them  trail ! 

For  they  always  call  attention 

To  the  things  you  mustn't  mention — 

JTis  the  soul-destroying  atmosphere  at  Yale! 


The  Dyspeptic  Cannibal. 

A  cannibal  was  seated  on  a  green  Pacific  isle, 
With  the  temperature  at  ninety-nine  degrees; 

His  dress  was  rather  scanty,  in  a  truly  savage  style, 
Just  a  pair  of  Boston  garters  round  his  knees. 

But  he  didn't  seem  quite  happy,  for  now  and  then  a  groan 
Escaped — which  tore  his  savage  breast  in  two ; 

And  he  chanted  in  a  melancholy,  meditative  tone 
The  ditty  that  I  now  repeat  to  you. 

[18] 


"I've  eaten  hostile  tribesmen  without  a  single  question, 
I've  feasted  on  the  yellow,  black,  and  brown; 

But  I  never  have  encountered  such  a  fit  of  indigestion 
As  accompanied  the  minister  from  town. 

"I  have  tried  the  Uambago,  boiled  and  roasted,  baked  and 

fried, 

I  have  chewed  the  woolly  Oolah  stuffed  with  yam; 
But  for  all  the  after  symptoms  from  the  dishes  I  have 

tried 
I  wouldn't  give  a  Bamballooadam. 

"But  I  caught  this  missionary  calmly  strolling  on  the 
main; 

Cooked  and  served  him  dressed  exactly  comme  il  faut. 
But  a  feeling  deep  within  me,  makes  it  disagreeably  plain 

That  the  missionary  surely  is  de  trop. 

"I  have  eaten  hostile  tribesmen  with  the  greatest  of 
urbanity ; 

I've  feasted  on  the  yellow,  black,  and  brown. 
But  to  eat  a  missionary  was  the  acme  of  insanity. 

You  cannot  keep  a  good  man  down." 


His  Mistake. 

I 

A  chilly  night, — a  single  wrap 
(I  thought  perhaps  she'd  share), 

Quite  right, — she  said  she  really 
Didn't  care. 

[19] 


II 

I  slipped  my  arm  around  her 

(For  there  wasn't  room  to  spare), 

And  well, — you  know, — she  really 
Didn't  care. 

Ill 

Her  teasing  eyes  enthralled  me 

(And  the  moonlight  touched  her  hair), 

I  really  couldn't  help  it, — and, — she  really 
Didn't  care. 

IV 

I  thought  she  loved  me  truly 

(And  'twas  all  upon  the  square), 

But  what  she  said,  alas,  was  true, — 
She  really  didn't  care. 


Frustra. 
"There's  many  a  Slip  'twixt  Pip  and  Lip." 

I 

Long  time  her  faithful  slave  I'd  been 
With  thronging  others;  long  unable 
To  leave  the  throng,  and  fairly  win 
Fair  Mistress  Mabel. 

II 

One  night  I  thought  my  prize  I'd  get; 

Apart  from  all  we  two  were  dancing, 

When  close  she  leaned,  and  closer  yet, 

With  charm  entrancing, 

[20] 


Ill 

Against  my  shoulder  (ah,  such  bliss 
Had  never  cruel  Fate  assigned  me ! ) 
And  rapturously  blew  a  kiss — 
To  one  behind  me ! 


A  Bashful  Ballad. 

Susannah  Lee  and  Reg  de  Punk 
Went  for  an  auto  ride  one  day, 
For  Sue  was  tired  of  walking  'round 
On  her — but  there,  I'd  best  not  say. 

Now  all  went  well  until  they  struck 
A  rut  which  neither  one  had  seen, 
There  was  a  smash  and  Susan  broke 
Her — you  know  what  I  mean. 

They  laid  her  'neath  a  shady  tree 
And  poured  cold  water  on  her  head, 
For  she  had  fainted  from  the  pain 
In  her — what  all  along  I've  said. 

The  doctor  came  and  sawed  it  off, 
Though  her  embarrassment  was  great. 
And  now  she  goes  around  without 
The  thing  they  had  to  amputate. 

For  days  and  days  she  stayed  at  home, 
Although  she  knew  she  should  go  out, 
For  she  could  not  feel  quite  the  same 
Without  her — what  I  spoke  about. 
[21] 


At  last  a  friend  came  to  her  house 
And,  when  she  passed  inside  the  door, 
She  took  with  her,  all  wrapped  up  close, 
A  wooden — what  I  said  before. 

Henceforth  she  went  about  with  ease, 
Although  her  step  had  lost  its  spring, 
But  if  she  breaks  the  other  one, 
Why  then — I'll  tell  you  everything. 


The  Female  of  the  Species. 
(  Rudyard,  forgive  me ! ) 

When  the  father  Jersey  skeeter  lights  upon  the  neck  of 

Man, 

His  intent  is  but  to  tickle  and  his  collar-button  scan; 
But  the  mother  shoves  her  stinger  through  the  epidermal 

scale, 
For  the  female  of  the  species  is  more  deadly  than  the 

male. 

When  in  foraging  old  Bruin  noses  'round  the  neighbors' 
stoop, 

At  once  the  Tom-cat  stretches  and  retires  from  the  group ; 

But  the  she-cat  and  her  kittens  drive  him  from  the  gar- 
bage pail — 

For  the  female  of  the  species  is  more  deadly  than  the 
male. 

When  the  long-delayed  remittance  doesn't  come  from  day 

to  day, 
The  stude  can  bluff  the  tailor's  man  with  promises  to  pay; 

[22] 


But  the  laundry  lady's  summons  leaves  him  terrified  and 

pale, 
For  the  female  of  the  species  is  more  deadly  than  the 

male. 

On  a  Monday  night,  at  Poll's,  we  can  stand  it  pretty  well 
When  a  baritone  performer  sings  "The  Boys  Who  Fought 

and  Fell," 
But  we  flee  in  wild  disorder  when  the  soubrette  starts  to 

wail, 
For  the  female  of  the  species  is  more  deadly  than  the 

male. 

There  are  rufnex  at  the  Lighthouse  where  the  breaking 

waves  dash  high, 

And  the  bold  Savinian  mucker  is  an  awe-inspiring  guy; 
But  the  "lady  friend"  he  convoys  makes  the  bold  explorer 

quail, 
For  the  female  of  these  beaches  is  more  deadly  than  the 

male. 

But    we're    going   home    for   Christmas,    so   perhaps    it 

wouldn't  do 

To  berate  the  fairer  gender,  looking  at  them  tout  en  tout, 
So  we  wax  apologetic,  and  admit  that  rules  may  fail 
And  the  female  of  OUR  species  be  much  nicer  than  the 

male! 


[23] 


Wander  Song. 
(From  any  of  the  popular  magazines.) 

Give  me  the  curlews  calling  on  the  gypsy  patteran, 
The  pine-smoke  whirling,  falling,  and  the  battered,  open 


van! 


Give  me  the  fires  of  spring,  lass,  your  warm  red  mouth  to 

kiss ! 
(But,  for  Gawd's  sake,  gimme  the  twenty  bucks  I  get  for 

writing  this ! ) 

Noon  and  the  red  gods  crying,  night  and  the  wild  stars 

dim, 
And  my  lonely  heart  replying,  astrain  for  the  skyline's 

rim! 
The  white  road  winding  snake-like,  the  dead  plains  burnt 

to  a  haze ! 
(But  I'll  never  go  in  a  million  years,  for  this  is  the  stuff 

that  pays ! ) 

Now  when  the  waves  are  foaming,  brave  on  the  China 

Sea, 
It's  there  that  my  soul  is  roaming,  it's  there  that  I  long 

to  be! 
And  oh,  for  some  rot-gut  whiskey  to  battle  the  sea's  white 

wrath ! 
(But  I'll  home  to  warm  milk  and  crackers,  and  a  tepid 

shower-bath!) 

STEPHEN  VINCENT  BENET. 


[24] 


Perfectly 


A  Freshman  thought  a  dozen  cuts 
Decidedly  a  bore; 
He  wondered  if  another  one 
Would  make  the  office  sore. 
(It  did.) 

A  Sophomore  from  Chicago  said 
He  lived  upon  sensations. 
He  showed  the  pictures  in  his  den 
To  visiting  relations. 
(He  got  some.) 

A  Junior  read  that  gin  will  jolt 
The  hardest  whiskey  fighters. 
He  tried  to  prove  his  stomach  to 
Be  stronger  than  the  writer's. 
(It  wasn't.) 

A  Senior  heard  that  diamond  rings 
Can  now  be  made  from  glue. 
He  purchased  one  to  see  if  it 
Would  please  a  girl  he  knew. 
(It  didn't.) 


Better  Be  Careful. 

Mother  said  that  she'd  surprise  me, 
Come  and  see  my  college  days; 
But  I  telegraphed  to  mother, 
"Don't !  Surprises  work  both  ways." 

[25] 


Swan  Song  of  the  Sword. 

I  have  cleft  the  helms  of  a  thousand  kings, 

I  have  laughed  as  the  nations  fell. 

In  the  wars  of  the  world  and  the  loves  of  the  world, 

I  have  done  my  work  and  well. 

And  I  bow  my  head  to  a  slug  of  lead 

And  a  finch  of  powdered  Hell. 

I  was  born  ere  the  birth  of  Order, 
To  history  gave  I  birth. 
The  past  is  the  tale  of  my  power, 
It's  boundary  the  earth. 

I  gleamed  from  the  walls  of  Sidon, 
Of  Nineveh  and  Tyre; 
With  Rome  the  world  I  trampled 
In  slavery  and  mire. 

I  have  flashed  in  the  crashing  tourney 
Till  I  raved  with  the  red  blood  wine. 
I  have  hewn  a  way  for  the  Templar 
Through  the  plains  of  Palestine. 

With  the  accolade  have  I  knighted 
The  son  of  him  I  slew, 
And  he  fought  his  fight  to  honor 
Till  I  took  him  as  my  due. 

I  have  swayed  the  world  as  a  bauble, 
I  have  played  with  the  fates  of  men, 
And  I  yield  to  an  unknown  master 
And  a  power  beyond  my  ken. 

[26] 


/  have  cleft  the  helms  of  a  thousand  kings, 

I  have  laughed  as  the  nations  fell. 

In  the  wars  of  the  world  and  the  loves  of  the  world, 

I  have  played  my  part  and  well. 

And  I  how  my  head  to  a  slug  of  lead, 

And  a  pinch  of  powdered  Hell. 

EDWARD  S.  PAINE. 


Ballade  of  the  Finishing-School  Girl. 

"X's"  and  "Y's,"  and  vagrant  signs, 
The  rate  of  waters  when  they  flow, 
Who  conquered  first  the  Mexic  mines, 
She  doesn't  know !  She  doesn't  know ! . 
— But  give  her  just  a  Cupid's  bow, 
And  men  crowd  four  deep  to  be  shot ! 
Her  courses  she  may  flunk,  but  oh, 
She  knows  a  lot !  She  knows  a  lot ! 

The  kitchen  pans  she  never  shines ! 
She  never  puts  her  hands  in  dough ! 
How  to  knit  ties  in  choice  designs 
She  doesn't  know !  She  doesn't  know ! 
But — take  her  out  to  dinner — go! 
Her  eye  unerringly  will  spot 
The  costliest  meats  the  card  can  show ! 
She  knows  a  lot !  She  knows  a  lot ! 

At  dances  gay  she  never  pines 
Where  the  wallflowers  stand  arow ! 
You  may  have  half — when  morning  shines ! 
She  doesn't  know !  She  doesn't  know ! 

[27] 


She  shook  you  for  a  Big  Man*?  No! 
But — she's  so  sorry  she  forgot, 
And,  thank  you  for  the  flowers ,  Joe ! 
She  knows  a  lot !  She  knows  a  lot ! 

Envoi. 

Me,  Princess,  when  my  cash  was  low 
You  didn't  know!  You  didn't  know! 
It  rose — your  notes  came  like  a  shot ! 
You  know  a  lot !  You  know  a  lot ! 

STEPHEN  VINCENT  BENET. 


Ballad. 

Concerning  ye  annual  crusade  to  and  conquest  of  ye 
infedele  olde  toune  of  Noo  Port,  Noo  Angle,  by  ye  faire 
femininitie  of  ye  adjacente  colonies.* 

*  ED.  NOTE. — We  take  pleasure  in  reprinting  undoubt- 
edly the  first  Prom,  ballad  ever  printed  in  the  annual 
Prom.  Number  of  "Ye  Yale  Record"  of  1720,  which  has 
been  recently  unearthed  in  excavation  for  the  new  library. 

I 

Elihu,  decke  wyth  ye  blue  thyn  halles ! 

Bassoon  and  hautboys  and  trumpets  blare! 
See  ye  faire  hoste  storm  thy  grimme  olde  walles — 

Rosie  cheeks,  Blue  eyn,  and  Silken  hair. 
Laughter  resounds  in  thyn  cloistres  bare, 

Merriment  rippleth  thy  frownes  away, 
Thy  fortresse  is  ta'en  by  halle  and  staire — 

Uppe  from  thyn  bookes,  and  make  holidaye ! 

[28] 


II 

Ye  hoste  rules  us  vanquished,  ye  host  enthralles, 

Captive  eche  bolde  hearte  in  subtle  snare. 
Vanquished  each  knicte  of  ye  pigskinne  falls. 

Ye  knictes  of  ye  stylus  noe  better  fare ; 
And  ye  knictes  of  ye  Midnight  Oil,  where  O  where 

Are  theyre  tomes  and  theyre  parchementes  in  brave 

arraye? 
Ye  victor's  behest  brookes  no  doubte — Beware ! 

Uppe  from  thyn  bookes,  and  make  holidaye ! 

Ill 

Then  lette  beacons  burne  as  ye  even  f alles ! 

Lette  ye  lanthorns  swinge  and  ye  torches  flare ! 
Whirle  dance,  to  brave  music,  tille  dawne  appalles 

Our  revelles  atte  laste,  in  ye  sunne's  bold  glare ! 
Then  pledge,  alle,  ye  victors  inne  bumpres  rare — 

"Ye  laydes,  God  blesse  'em !"  for  e'er  and  aye ! 
Blacke  brows  to  ye  de'il,  and  aroint,  dull  care ! 

Uppe  from  thyn  bookes,  and  make  holidaye ! 

Envoy. 

Prince,  wi'  such  Levees  and  Routes  and  Balles, 
These  be  goldene  hours  that  flash  awaye 

To  ye  workaday  drone  when  butte  memorye  calles — 
"Uppe  from  thyn  bookes,  and  make  holidaye !" 


[29] 


Popularity. 

Grace  was  never  very  cordial, 
Hardly  noticed  me  at  all, 
Promised  dances  and  forgot  them, 
Never  asked  me  up  to  call ; 
Yet  she  sent  a  box  of  candy, 
With  a  note  attached  to  same 
Asking  how  I  was,  and  so  forth — 
Just  before  the  Princeton  game. 

Jennie  used  to  snub  me  badly, 
All  my  talk  did  she  ignore, 
Made  remarks  about  my  person, 
Told  her  friends  I  was  a  bore; 
But  she  sent  a  picture  postal 
With  these  words  before  her  name, 
"How  is  dear  old  Yale  at  present?" 
Just  before  the  Princeton  game. 

Susan  promised  me  her  picture, 
But,  alas,  it  did  not  come ; 
Weeks  and  weeks  I  calmly  waited ; 
Broken-hearted,  sad  and  glum; 
But  a  brighter  day  was  destined, 
So  at  last  the  picture  came, 
And  somehow  it  chanced  to  reach  me 
Just  before  the  Princeton  game. 

Though  I  may  at  times  be  hated, 
Snubbed  and  frozen  by  a  glance; 
Though  I  may  have  girls  reject  me 
When  I  ask  them  for  a  dance ; 

[30] 


Yet  whene'er  it  comes  November, 
All  their  love  bursts  into  flame; 
Oh,  I  tell  you  I'm  a  "winner" 
Just  before  the  Princeton  game. 


A  Frolicsome  Echo. 

Have  you  walked  across  the  Green 

In  the  middle  of  the  night4? 
When  the  State  House  clear  is  seen, 

Glistening  pure  and  cold  and  white*? 
Round  those  pillars  lurks  an  echo 

Which  at  midnight  doth  appear, 
And  to  passers-by  gives  answers 

Which,  to  say  the  least,  are  queer, 
O  very  queer. 

I  have  heard  its  elfin  voice; 

It  has  frequent  answers  made, 
When,  replete  with  savory  oys- 

Ters  and  various  things,  I've  strayed 
Past  those  tottering  marble  pillars, 

And  have  asked,  "How  can  it  be 
When  (hie)  ever'sing  is  dark  around 

I'm  fi-filled  with  bon  esprit?" 
"Been  on  a  spree!" 

I  have  argued  out  the  case 

With  that  echo  lurking  there; 

Proved  that  that  was  not  the  place 
For  an  echo  to  repair, 

[31] 


At  the  solemn  hour  of  midnight; 

And  in  earnestness  intense, 
I  have  pointed  to  my  own  self, 

"Look  on  conscious  innocence," 
"In  no  sense!" 

"You're  no  gentleman,"  I  said, 
"  'N  I  doncare  whoo  you  are, 

You're  an  owl,  a  bat,  a  red- 
Tape  old  minion  of  the  law. 

I  can  prove  you're  not  a  gentleman, 
I  could  tell  you  in  a  crowd, 

For  among  polite  (hie)  people,  sir, 
No  such  high-toned  talk's  allowed." 
"Don't  talk  so  loud!" 

Many  other  queer  remarks, 

Impudent  beyond  compare, 
Makes  that  echo,  in  his  larks 

Up  and  down  the  State  House  stair. 
All  which  proves  that  sportive  echoes, 

Giv'n  to  staying  out  quite  late, 
Will  reduce  a  wretched  State  House 

To  that  very  wretched  state. 
Intoxicate. 


[32] 


Remembrance. 

I 

Ah,  would  that  I  might  see  again 

A  face  that  I  can  ne'er  forget: 
It  seems  that  love  is  only  pain, 

And  memory  a  wild  regret. 

Across  the  years  I  see  it  yet, 
The  sun-bright  pleasance  of  her  smile : 

Ah,  would  that  we  had  never  met, 
If  'twas  but  for  so  brief  a  while. 

II 

Ah,  why  should  sorrow  be  so  long, 

And  pleasure  be  so  very  fleet? 
A  world  so  woeful  must  be  wrong, 

And  faith  is  but  a  vain  deceit ! — 

If  pain  is  needed  to  complete 
A  perfect  picture,  undisplayed, 

Ah,  would  that  I  might  die,  to  meet 
The  joy  that  casts  so  deep  a  shade. 

LAWRENCE  MASON, 

Ballade. 

Into  the  nothingness,  unafraid, 
Into  the  world  with  a  will  to  know, 
Carolling  tunes  that  Apollo  played, — 
Smugness  is  not  for  a  Romeo. 
Wandering  wantonly  to  and  fro 
Of  ultima  thule  unaware, 
This  is  the  stronger  call,  and  I  go, 
Happy-go-lucky.  Devil-may-care. 

[33] 


Far  from  the  ken  of  the  sticky  staid, 
Rigid  banalities,  row  on  row, — 
Motley  is  mine  for  the  dull  parade, 
Smugness  is  not  for  a  Romeo. 
Hours  of  pleasure,  a  touch  of  woe, 
Bliss  to  enjoy,  and  a  grief  to  share; 
On  again,  on  in  the  crazy  show, 
Happy-go-lucky.  Devil-may-care. 

Castles  in  Spain  there  are,  unessayed, 
Seeming  to  beckon  an  overthrow, 
Phantasies  fit  for  a  man  and  maid, — 
Smugness  is  not  for  a  Romeo. 
Flat  on  my  back  in  the  firelight's  glow 
Breathing  of  beauty,  I  would  be  there 
Lolling,  and  watching  the  green  things  grow, 
Happy-go-lucky.  Devil-may-care. 

Envoy. 

Prince,  till  the  breezes  cease  to  blow 
Smugness  is  not  for  a  Romeo, 
Give  me  a  song  on  the  midnight  air, 
Happy-go-lucky.  Devil-may-care. 

F.  W.  BRONSON, 


a  Debutante. 


What  means  it  all  *?  'Twas  only  yesterday 
That  arm  in  arm,  beneath  the  elm  trees  shady, 
We  strolled,  a  boy  and  girl,  care-free  and  gay; 
And  now  they  tell  me  you're  a  full-grown  lady.- 
Pray,  What's  the  dope  9 

[34] 


I'm  still  a  boy,  and  you,  whose  age  from  mine 
Is  separated  by  a  week  or  so, 
No  longer  are  a  girl ;  you  have,  in  fine, 
"Come  out," — and  yesterday  seems  long  ago — 
It's  pretty  tough ! 

And  yet  it's  right,  I  guess;  for  if  you  had 
Waited  for  me  till  I  became  a  man, 
What  chance  would  be,  for  you  to  grab  some  lad 
At  twenty-one'? — while  now  you  surely  can. 
But  still  it's  tough ! 

But  now  you've  done  it  and  the  milk  is  spilled. 
I  often  turn  to  proverbs  in  a  flurry. 
Here's  hoping  that  your  future  shall  be  filled 
With  luck — and  as  for  me,  why,  I  should  worry. 
(Bus.  of  worrying.) 

W.  B.  L. 


Drinking  Song. 

Bring  hither  the  wine  from  the  banks  of  the  Rhine, 
From  vineyards  by  river  and  fountain, 

Whose  clustering  grape  in  royalty  drape 
The  hills,  as  the  trees  crown  the  mountain. 

Gather  the  grape  from  each  island  and  cape, 
From  the  vine-covered  vales  of  Champagne, 

From  the  land  of  the  dance,  most  beautiful  France, 
From  the  loveliest  river  of  Spain. 

[35] 


Taste  of  each  joy  free  from  taint  or  alloy; 

Drink  deep  of  the  goblet  of  pleasure, — 
Let  no  aching  smart  wend  its  way  to  the  heart, 

But  each  beat  in  according  measure. 

Put  the  cares  of  the  day  with  darkness  away, 
Nor  trouble  or  sorrow  e'er  borrow; — 

But  with  loud  ringing  song  the  banquet  prolong, 
Till  the  night  fades  in  sunbeams  tomorrow. 

C.  S. 


A  Graeco-African  Romance. 

A  captain  of  Thebes  (which  in  Greece  is) 
Was  chopped  into  very  small  pieces 

By  a  cannibal  king 

Named  Thingumaging 
And  sent  home,  C.  O.  D.,  to  his  nieces. 

Now  this  king  was  an  African  nigger, 
Less  at  home  with  a  pen  than  a  trigger, 

Yet  he  managed  to  write, 

And  enclose  in  plain  sight: 
"I  adore  you;  come  on  when  you're  bigger." 

So  the  maidens  made  room  for  their  uncle. 
Now  ere  long  they  had  eaten  and  drunk  all 

The  fortune  they  had. 

The  dilemma  was  bad; 
So  they  packed  up  their  goods  in  a  trunk  all, 

[36] 


And  they  checked  it  direct  for  this  cannibal. 
For  they  said :  "A  descendant  of  Hannibal 

Will  be  good  to  the  poor 

And  he  loves  us,  we're  sure 
He'll  receive  us  with  warmth  quite  unfanable." 

Well,  he  came  out  and  met  them  aboard  ship. 
They  fell  down  and  called  him,  "Your  Lordship." 

Then  he  took  them  ashore — 

They've  been  heard  of  no  more, 
Since  they  sent  one  last  yell  back  toward  ship. 

Now  the  moral  of  this,  if  you  please,  is 
Don't  invite  home  another  man's  nieces; 

For  they'll  come  and  they'll  stay: 

You  can't  get  them  away — 
Unless  you  can  cause  their  deceases. 


At  Farming  ton. 

If  there's  a  place  on  earth  that's  fair 

'Tis  Farmington; 
The  girls  are  always  sweetest  there 

At  Farmington. 

What  greater  bliss  than  'neath  the  shade, 
To  wander  with  some  laughing  maid, 
And  later  on  to  serenade 

At  Farmington? 

I  mean,  that's  as  it  used  to  be, 

At  Farmington; 
But  all  has  changed,  alas,  for  me 

At  Farmington. 

[37] 


No  wonder  that  the  school  seems  drear 
And  e'en  the  girls  should  be  less  dear, 
For  Edith  graduates  this  year 
From  Farmington. 


The  Boarding-School  Girl. 

The  girls  at  the  Frolic  are  pretty  enough, 
But  isn't  it  true  they're  a  little  bit  rough? 

Their  lip-rouge  and  laughing 

Are  really  quite  frightful, 

Their  gay  champagne  quaffing 

By  no  means  delightful, 

Compared  with  the  rare  little,  light  little,   fair  little, 
bright  little  minx  of  a  boarding-school  girl. 

The  maid  from  Hawaii  is  lissome  and  gay 
But  isn't  Hawaiian  stuff  fading  away? 

That  nude  Hula-Hula, 

That  sinuous  dancing, 

Berlin's  "Hicki-Doola," 

Are  not  so  entrancing, 

Compared  with  the  neat  little,  prim  little,  sweet  little, 
trim  little  miss  of  a  boarding-school  girl. 

The  Chapel  Street  chicken  entrances  the  eye, 
But  stop  short  with  staring  when  she  passes  by ! 

She  may  be  delicious 

(We  know  you're  a  devil !), 

She  may  be  pernicious — 

Admit,  on  the  level, 

She's  naught  to  the  cold  little,  shy  little,  bold  little,  fly 
little  flirt  of  a  boarding-school  girl. 

[38] 


The  dull  debutante  drinks  her  tea  with  a  slouch, 
And  has  a  good  time  with  a  recherche  grouch. 

Her  eyes  so  imploring, 

Her  chatter,  and  giggles 

To  you  must  be  boring, 

Conventional  wiggles. 

So  here's  to  the  sad  little,  glad  little,  bad  little,  mad  little 
witch  of  a  boarding-school  girl. 


time's  Revenges. 

When  I  was  ten,  and  she  fifteen — 
Ah  me !  how  fair  I  thought  her ! 

She  treated  with  disdainful  mien 
The  homage  that  I  brought  her; 

And,  in  a  patronizing  way, 

Would  of  my  shy  advances  say : 

"It's  really  quite  absurd,  you  see, 

You're  very  much  too  young  for  me." 

I'm  twenty,  now,  she,  twenty-five — 
Well,  well !  How  old  she's  growing ! 

I  fancy  that  my  suit  might  thrive 
If  pressed  again ;  but  owing 

To  great  discrepancy  in  age, 

Her  marked  attentions  don't  engage 

My  young  affections ;  for  you  see, 

She's  really  quite  too  old  for  me. 


[39] 


Geldeslied. 

There  is  music,  says  the  poet,  in  a  maiden's  whispered 

words ; 
There  is  music,  I  acknowledge,  in  the  warbling  of  the 

birds ; 

But  the  music  most  entrancing,  most  enrapturing,  I  think, 
Is  the  tintinnabulation  of  a  pocketful  of  chink. 

There  is  beauty  in  the  meadows,  in  the  sunset's  ruddy 

glow; 
And  the  birds  and  flowers  and  butterflies  are  beautiful,  I 

know; 
But  though  it  may  lack  in  color  and  be  torn  and  crumpled, 

still, 
There's  a  very  charming  beauty  in  an  old  ten-dollar  bill. 

Well  I  know  what  rapturous  bliss  it  is  to  clasp  a  maiden's 

waist ; 

And  the  sweet  exhilaration  when  her  ruby  lips  you  taste; 
But   of   all    the   fleeting   pleasures    which   exist    'neath 

heaven's  dome 
The  brightest  and  most  joyous  is  to  get  a  cheque  from 

home. 


Her  Gentle  T^ouch. 

Her  gentle  touch  my  pulses  thrilled, 
And  all  my  heart  with  rapture  filled 
Whene'er  her  hand,  so  soft  and  white, 
Vouchsafed  to  mine  a  pressure  light. 
Ah,  then  what  castles  I  would  build ! 

[40] 


My  every  grief  was  straightway  stilled, 
And  life  went  always  as  I  willed 
Whene'er  I  felt,  in  visions  bright, 
Her  gentle  touch. 

But  now  we're  wed,  and  I've  been  drilled 
To  fear,  when,  ribboned  and  befrilled, 
She  takes  my  hand  and  holds  it  tight, 
'Twill  cost  me  twenty  dollars,  quite, 
To  satisfy,  all  claims  fulfilled, 
Her  gentle  touch. 


tfhe  Rubaiyat  of  Over  Khutter. 

I 

Dreaming  when  Morning's  glory  filled  the  sky, 
I  heard  a  voice  without  my  chamber  cry. 
Anon  my  roommate  hammered  at  the  door 
With  tales  of  cuts  and  Chapel — what  cared  I? 

II 

And  as  the  clock  chimed  eight  I  heard  the  fall 
Of  many  hasty  feet  sound  through  the  hall, 
But  in  the  cozy  comfort  of  my  couch 
I  lay  in  peace,  nor  heeded  them  at  all. 

Ill 

Let  those  who  have  not  felt  sweet  Somnus'  charm 
Scurry  to  work,  their  books  beneath  their  arm. 
Ah,  let  us  sleep  and  let  the  world  go  by, 
Nor  heed  the  whirring  of  the  shrill  alarm. 


IV 

Milford  will  be  our  fate,  the  foolish  say, 
Well,  if  it  is  so — what  of  that  I  pray? 
There  with  no  studies  to  disturb  our  rest, 
What  joy  to  lie  and  dream  our  lives  away! 


And  then  while  countless  aeons  o'er  us  pass, 
To  lie  at  length  beneath  the  churchyard  grass, 
In  the  soft  lap  of  our  loved  Mother  Earth, 
Free  from  watch,  clock,  sundial,  or  hour-glass. 


Demosthenes  and  Cicero. 
An  Ode  in  the  Manner  of  the  Ancients. 

Demosthenes  and  Cicero! 

Your  beans  are  heavy  with  the  snow 

That  lies  in  soft  and  restful  heaps 

Where  the  white(?)  marble  (?)  courthouse  sleeps. 

You  never  drank — oh,  no !  oh,  no ! 

Demosthenes  and  Cicero. 

Demosthenes  and  Cicero! 

Laugh  at  me,  as  I  madly  go 

With  wavering  steps  and  reeling  head 

And  shouts  that  might  awake  the  dead ! 

Taking,  as  pasture  for  my  feet, 

The  steps,  the  sidewalk,  and  the  street ! 

You  never  drowned  a  care,  a  woe, 

Demosthenes  and  Cicero! 

[42] 


Tou  never  shouted,  "Kill  the  cop !" 

Or  wondered  when  the  room  would  stop ; 

But  always  said,  "I  gotta  study!" 

Nor  looked  on  wine  when  it  was  ruddy  .  .  . 

And  so  you  sit  and  freeze  and  freeze, 

Demosthenes,  Demosthenes ! 

Tou  never  knew  the  talk,  the  laughter, 
The  sick  dawn  of  the  morning  after, 
Tou  burned  the  well-known  oil  till  late, 
And  wore  stiff  shirts,  and  got  3.8 
And  went  at  last  where  good  boys  go, 
Cicero,  O  Cicero! 

The  wind  must  (hie!)  hurt  your  naked  knees, 

Demosthenes,  Demosthenes ! 

It  must  be  cold  to  hold  that  snow ! 

Cicero,  O  Cicero! 

STEPHEN  VINCENT  BENET, 


While  Smoke  Skeins  Curl. 
(Rondeau.) 

While  smoke  skeins  curl  from  cigarette 
Or  pipe  and  form  a  writhing  net 
Of  twirling  strands  before  my  eyes, 
I  see  in  twisted  wreaths  that  rise 
Dream  Faces  that  I  can't  forget. 

Gay  are  their  eyes,  or  teary  wet; — 
And  gentle  blue,  or  grey,  or  jet; 
And  on  their  lips  queer  smiles  arise — 
When  smoke  skeins  curl. 

[43] 


Oh,  well  I  know  that  each  coquette 
Smiles  thus  on  other  men — "And  yet, 
Though  that  is  true,"  my  pipe  replies, 
"  'Tis  best  to  dream  they  tell  no  lies; 
Let  Fancy  sweeter  dreams  beget — 
When  smoke  skeins  curl!" 

J.  W.  BLAIR. 


Two  Games. 

I 

We  all  must  play  it  hard  today— 

Who  knows  how  Fortune  veers'? 
You  play  for  an  hour  of  victory, 
But  I — for  a  thousand  years. 

For  yours  is  a  game  of  twenty-two, 
But  mine  is  a  game  of  two. 

II 

The  first  half  goes  against  you  sore — 

You  hear  the  Tiger  laugh, 
You  hope  and  fight  to  change  the  score — 

I  strive  for  a  "better  half." 

Ill 

The  voice  of  the  quarter-back  rings  loud 

That  spurs  to  victory — 
While  no  one  hears  the  word,  soft-vowed, 
That  turns  the  tide  for  me ! 

For  yours  was  a  game  of  twenty-two, 
But  mine  was  a  game  of  two. 

[44] 


'frw-Lady. 

"A  lovely  lady  garmented  in  light," 

What  meaning  to  those  words  we  now  assign ! 

Divinest  Shelley,  thou  who  once  didst  write, 

A  lovely  lady  garmented  in  light, 

Thou  never  sawest  Fashion  at  her  height, 
Else  thou  hadst  never  dared  to  pen  that  line ; 

A  lovely  lady  garmented  in  light, 

What  meaning  to  those  words  we  now  assign ! 

tf he  Kara  Avis. 

There  are  men  to  whom  Chapel's  appealing 
Though  the  monitor's  off  on  a  bum, 

There  are  merry  young  flowers 

Who  take  extra  hours — 
It's  a  marvel  that  renders  me  dumb. 
There  are  Sophs,  who  continue  their  heeling, 
Till  November  their  credit  they  hoard — 

But  they  don't  pass  the  ban, 

When  compared  with  the  man 
Who  will  work  after  making  the  board. 

Carnegie's  refused  to  retire; 
John  D.  will  not  rest  on  the  shelf; 

There's  a  lad  who  arises 

At  six.  The  surprise  is, 
His  earliest  class  is  at  twelve; 
But  the  thing  that  would  really  inspire 
My  soul,  that  would  really  afford 

A  sensation  brand-new, 

Is  the  editor  who 
Will  work  after  making  the  board. 

[45] 


The  Mistletoe. 
(Rondeau.) 

The  mistletoe,  in  days  of  yore, 
By  Druids,  versed  in  ancient  lore, 
Was  held  to  be  a  plant  most  rare, 
To  which  they  offered  frequent  pray'r, 
And  sacrificed  in  time  of  war. 

But  Cupid's  now  forevermore 
Is  this  fair  flower;  I  implore 
All  ye  of  tender  heart, — beware 

The  Mistletoe ! 

For  see,  Jane  steals  across  the  floor, 
And  halts  an  instant  near  the  door 
With  winsome  blush.    It  is  a  dare ! 
What  drops  and  clusters  'round  her  hair? 
What  shyly  feigns  she  to  ignore? 

The  Mistletoe ! 


Complementary  Colors. 

I 

A  maiden  from  the  Baltic  Sea, 
Whose  eyes  were  blue  as  blue  could  be, 
Cobaltic,  one  might  say, 
Contrived  a  clever  coup  d*  etat 
All  unbeknown  to  Pa  or  Ma, 
In  short,  she  ran  away. 

[46] 


II 

But  not  alone,  good  gracious,  no ! 
She  was  eloping  with  her  beau, 
A  youth  of  virtues  rare. 
His  cheeks  were  red  as  any  rose, 
The  same  was  said  about  his  nose, 
And  red,  too,  was  his  hair. 

Ill 

The  twain  were  married.  Yet  they  say 
That  they  had  quarrels  every  day, 
And  wasted  much  affection. 
For  who'd  suppose  that  they'd  agree, 
A  pair  who  were,  as  you  all  see, 
So  different  in  complexion*? 

IV 

But  in  their  children  they  found  joy, 
A  lovely  girl,  a  stalwart  boy, 
Who  grew,  and  grew,  and  throve. 
The  boy  took  after  both  the  two, 
For  he  was  of  a  purple  hue ; 
His  sister,  she  was  mauve. 


Karovitchiouowski. 

O  maid  with  surprise  in  the  light  of  your  eyes, 
And  cheeks  that  are  strange  to  a  tear, 

I'd  like  to  rehearse  your  virtues  in  verse, 
But  your  name's  an  impediment,  dear. 

[47] 


Karovit — you  begin,  and  there  follows  it  in 

A  chi  and  a  ki  and  some  ou's, 
With  an  ow  and  a  ski,  but  what's  worrying  me 

Is  the  way  it  starts  sneezing  my  muse. 

Every  metre  I've  tried,  and  a  dozen  beside, 
To  emblazon  her  name,  but  they  don't, 

Yet  my  triumph  completer  would  be  if  the  metre 
Could  meet  her  halfway, — but  it  won't! 


Rondeau. 

Lucinda's  heart  is  made  of  stone — 
I'm  sure  of  it!  It's  clearly  shown 
Each  time  I  throbbingly  begin 
To  speak  of  love,  or  things  akin, 
And  find  my  purpose  quickly  known. 

She  laughs  in  such  a  mocking  tone! 
I  fear,  as  I  suppress  a  groan, 
I'll  never  find  a  welcome  in 
Lucinda's  heart. 

And  yet  my  love  is  far  from  flown ; 
In  fact,  I  think  it's  rather  grown; 
Somehow  I  know,  despite  chagrin, 
It's  just  'cause  Lucy's  feminine — 
Just  woman's  way — a  woman's  throne: 
Lucinda's  Art ! 

LORING  M.  STAPLES, 


[48] 


The  Sheff  Rush. 

Oh,  the  band  is  playing  gaily  in  the  brightly  flaring  light, 
And  the  classes  are  assembling  from  the  darkness  of  the 

night, 

And  the  Seniors  in  their  costumes  are  an  awesome,  fear- 
some sight — 
For  they  do  things  most  completely  there  in  Sheff. 

Oh,  there's  spirit  in  the  music  when  the  order  comes  to 
start, 

And  there's  spirit  in  each  buoyant  step  and  in  each  buoy- 
ant heart, 

And — hush!  say  it  in  a  whisper — there  are  spirits  in  the 

cart — 
For  they  do  things  most  completely  there  in  Sheff. 

Oh,  they  zigzag  up  the  street  in  most  exhilarating  style, 
And  they  cheer  and  sing  and  dance  and  yell  for  upwards 

of  a  mile, 
And  the  playful  little  mucker  gaily  swipes  each  cherished 

tile— 
For  they  do  things  most  completely  there  in  Sheff. 

Oh,  there's  fellowship  abounding  as  the  cups  around  they 

pass, 
And  the  semi-naked  wrestlers  struggle  fiercely  on  the 

grass, 
And  they'd  do  each  other  up  for  good  in  honor  of  their 

class — 
For  they  do  things  most  completely  there  in  Sheff. 


[49] 


Autumn  Girl. 


My  Summer  girl  was  fair,  lads, 
My  Summer  girl  was  fair. 
But  the  Summer  girl 
While  the  crisp  leaves  whirl 
Is  gone,  when  the  elms  grow  bare. 

Why  should  my  heart  be  gay,  lads, 
In  torrents  falls  the  rain; 

The  wind  blows  high, 

The  dead  leaves  fly, 
November's  here  again. 

Amid  the  fallen  leaves,  lads, 
The  Autumn  girl  comes  on; 

Who  in  spite  of  the  gale 

Will  cheer  for  Yale, 
When  the  Summer  girl  is  gone. 


A  Lenten  Rhyme. 

Aye,  Lent  has  come!  Away,  false  jollity! 

And  cloak  in  black !  Mabel  has  turned  from  me, 

And  toward  the  church-bells  ever  takes  her  way, 

She  will  not  dance  for  all  that  I  can  say, 

No  longer  saith  she  low,  "George,  stay  for  tea!" 

I  took  her  to  the  theatre,  merrily, 
Now  I  take  up  the  plate,  each  day  a  fee.  .  .  . 
Gods,  must  I  hear  it  to  the  fortieth  day*? — 
Aye,  Lent*? 

[50] 


The  trees  are  bare,  the  wind  whines  bitterly, 

And  funerals  are  all  that  I  can  see — 

Slow  Time  shall  bring  me  back  the  buds  of  May, 

Time  shall  bring  back  my  love,  laughing  and  gay, — 

But  who  returneth  the  ten  bucks  to  me, 

I  lent? 

STEPHEN  VINCENT  BENET. 


A  Syllabic  Symposium. 

I 

Inspire  me,  O  Muse,  with  the  indigo  blues, 
While  I  crib  out  of  History's  page, 
And  try  to  relate,  the  most  horrible  fate 
Of  mankind,  since  the  Pliocene  Age. 
For  those  who  are  keen  on  this  same  Pliocene 
Say  many  a  man  left  his  corpse 
As  a  saccharine  feast,  for  the  indigent  beast 
The  Dinosaur  Anthropomorps, — 

The    Brachuocephalus-megalopopepsinous-dinosaur    An- 
thropomorps. 

II 

But  a  new  generation  has  given  occasion, 

To  make  their  friend  Anthro  look  pale, 

And  so  I  can  tell  of  a  tale  that  befell, 

To  an  innocent  native  of  Yale. 

Now  a  chemical  gent,  once,  over  in  Kent, 

Was  toiling  some  law  to  refute 

By  mixing  diethyl-percaesium-methyl 

With  pyrogal-chromate,  dilute, — 

With  sulphantimoniate  pyrogal-chromate  dilute. 

[51] 


Ill 

But  then  with  a  smash,  a  scream  and  a  crash, 
The  bottles  blew  up  in  a  shake 
The  whole  apparatus,  and  left  him  as  flat  as 
The  pancakes  that  mother  can  make. 
And  not  only  that,  but  he  lay  in  a  vat, 
In  an  ocean,  red-hot  and  incensed, 

That  sputtered  and  choked,  and  bubbled  and  smoked, — 
'Twas  pyrogal-chromate,  condensed, — 
'Twas  sulphantimoniate  -  diethyl  -  methylene  -  percaesium  - 
pyrogal-chromate,  condensed. 

IV 

"Oh,  get  me,"  he  cried,  "ere  it  reach  my  inside, 
An  alkaline  antidote — do !" 
But  what  should  it  be — "Oh,  hurry,"  says  he, 
"Get  a  sesquisulphuric  or  two! 

Get  a  thiocarbaminide-tetramethyldiamidotriphenyl-me- 
thane-sesquisulphuric,  or  two!" 

V 

Said  the  first  assistant  to  the  second  assistant,  "Where  is 

this  thiocarbam-etc.,  etc.?" 
Said  the  second  assistant  to  the  first  assistant,  "I'll  get  the 

thiocarbam-etc.,  etc." 

Yet  e'en  while  they  grunted  and  struggled  and  hunted, 
He  frittered  and  frizzled  and  fried, 
In  this  polysyllabic,  this  Sanskrit-Arabic — 
For  a  sesquisulphuric  he  died, 
For  a  thiocarbaminide-tetramethyldiamidotriphenyl-me- 

thane-sesquisulphuric — he  died ! 


[52] 


The  Last  Dance. 

Dance,  Amourette !  Slowly  the  last  waltz  dies. 

The  gleaming  floor  is  left  a  blank  expanse. 
Outside  the  hall  the  chill  grey  lights  arise. 

Dance,  Amourette !  The  end  comes  swiftly !  Dance ! 

Dance !  While  the  music  dwindles  to  its  close 

In  a  brief  hour  all's  over  and  you  go, 
Leaving  behind  faint  perfume  and  one  rose 

To  solace  me  in  weary  hours  and  slow. 


Ballade  of  Reminiscences. 

The  night  taps  on  the  window-panes 
With  sleety  fingers,  and  the  gale 

In  high-keyed  monotone  complains. 
Thus  while  the  elements  assail, 
Within  are  passed  the  mugs  of  ale, 

Large,  easy  chairs  the  fire  surround. 
The  ceiling  wears  a  smoky  veil, 

When  reminiscences  go  round. 

The  elements  this  throng  disdains, 

As  knee  to  knee  they  pass  the  tale, 
While  on  the  ceiling  flares  and  wanes 

The  happy  firelight's  laughter  trail. 

The  mountains  of  the  past  they  scale, 
And  hark  the  music  of  the  hound 

That  faintly  rends  dim  mem'ry's  veil, 
When  reminiscences  go  round. 

[53] 


No  sensitiveness  e'er  constrains 

The  teller  to  omit  detail. 
If  he  remembers  not  he  feigns, 

Lest  a  boon  comrade's  story  fail. 

Too  soon  the  eastern  sky  grows  pale, 
Then  mugs  upon  the  table  pound, 

And  each  gives  each  a  last  "all  hail," 
When  reminiscences  go  round. 

Envoy. 

Prince,  sapients  and  students  pale 
Deep  theoretic  themes  expound, 

But  know  true  love  and  mirth  prevail, 
When  reminiscences  go  round. 


Maudlinlay. 


By  the  Savin  Rock  Pagoda,  looking  eastward  to  the  sea, 
There's  a  Savin  girl  a  settin',  and  she  sets  in  vain  for  me, 
For  the  wind  comes  thro'  the  campus,  and  the  Chapel  bells 

they  mock, 
"Come  you  back,  you  foolish  student,  come  you  back  to 

Savin  Rock." 

Come  you  back  to  Savin  Rock, 
To  the  Old  Mill  and  the  Dock. 
But  the  cash  is  sadly  lacking,  and  I've  nothing  left  to 

hock. 

On  the  road  to  Savin  Rock 
Where  the  festive  students  flock, 

Can't  you  hear  the  trolley  clanging  from  the  Green  to 
Savin  Rock? 

[54] 


II 

O  I'm  sick  o'  wasting  ivory  on  a  grisly  Commons  bone, 
And  the  blamed  New  Haven  drizzle  wakes  a  melancholic 

groan. 

Tho  I  walk  with  fifty  students  out  of  Commons  to  Bat- 
tell, 
And  they  talks  a  lot  of  eating — still  the  grub's  an  awful 

sell. 

Beef  so  bum  and  dirty  plate — 
Law !  How  can  they  masticate  *? 
I've  a  keener,  greener  hunger  than  I  had  before  I  ate. 

Ill 

Ship  me  somewheres  down  in  Gotham  where  the  best  is 

near  the  worst, 
Where  there  ain't  no  morning  chapel  and  a  man  can  raise 

a  thirst. 
For  the  Chapel  bells  are  calling,  and  it's  there  I  wouldn't 

be, 

On  a  Chapel  seat  a  listening  to  the  choir  in  ag — o — nee. 
Rather  walking  down  Broadway, 
Down  the  famed  Rial  to  gay, 
Can't  you  hear  the  autos  honking  as  they  beat  it  up 

Broadway4? 

Ship  me  to  the  Great  White  Way 
Where  the  careless  chorae  play, 

For  it's  weeks  since  I  have  wandered  down  the  road 
they  call  Broadway. 


[55] 


Ballade  of  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

Where  the  waves  of  burning  cloud  are  rolled 

On  the  farther  shore  of  the  sunset  sea, 
In  a  land  of  wonder  that  none  behold, 

There  blooms  a  rose  on  the  Dreamland  Tree. 

It  grows  in  the  Garden  of  Mystery 
Where  the  River  of  Slumber  softly  flows 

And  whenever  a  dream  has  come  to  be 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

In  the  heart  of  the  tree,  on  a  branch  of  gold, 

A  silvern  bird  sings  endlessly 
A  mystic  song  that  is  ages  old, 

A  mournful  song  in  a  minor  key, 

Full  of  the  glamour  of  faery; 
And  whenever  a  dreamer's  ears  unclose 

To  the  sound  of  that  distant  melody, 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

Dreams  and  visions  in  hosts  untold 

Throng  around  on  the  moonlit  lea; 
Dreams  of  age  that  are  calm  and  cold, 

Dreams  of  youth  that  are  fair  and  free, 

Dark  with  a  lone  heart's  agony, 
Bright  with  a  hope  that  no  one  knows — 

And  whenever  a  dream  and  a  dream  agree, 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 


[56] 


L'Envoi. 

Princess,  you  gaze  in  a  reverie 

Where  the  drowsy  firelight  redly  glows; 
Slowly  you  raise  your  eyes  to  me — 

A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

W.  BRIAN  HOOKER, 


Fussing  the  Game. 
Villanelle. 

She  was  eyeing  me  with  a  pretty  pout, 

And  her  small  gloved  hand  lay, — ah,  so  near, 
But  the  bases  were  full  and  no  one  out. 

The  crowd  rose  up,  and  called  for  a  clout, 

But  the  sound  came  faintly  to  my  ear, — 
She  was  eyeing  me  with  a  pretty  pout. 

I  gazed  at  her  face  with  a  mien  devout, 

As  if  my  attentiveness  were  sincere, 
But  the  bases  were  full  and  no  one  out. 

I  leaped  to  my  feet  and  joined  the  shout, 

Then  quickly  sat  at  a  glance  severe, — 
She  was  eyeing  me  with  a  pretty  pout. 

The  light  in  her  eyes  dispelled  all  doubt, 

And  I  think  that  I  heard  her  murmur,  "dear,3 
But  the  bases  were  full  and  no  one  out. 

[57] 


First  I  looked  at  her,  then  I  looked  without, 

And  my  head  bobbed  round  in  mad  career, — 
She  was  eyeing  me  with  a  pretty  pout, 
But  the  bases  were  full  and  no  one  out. 


A  tertiary  tragedy. 

A  brontosaurus  horrid 

With  his  eyes  up  in  his  forehead, 

And  a  neck  beside  which  anything  would  pale, 

Was  a-nibblin'  off  the  edges 

Of  some  Tertiary  sedges, 

And  playfully  a-waggin'  of  his  tail, 

Like  a  flail 
Was  he  swashin'  of  that  Prehistoric  tail. 

Overhead  a  Pterodactyl 

Came  a-flappin'  towards  his  back,  till 

He  had  almost  made  a  landing  on  his  Nibs. 

On  his  vertebrums  he  lighted 

And  let  out  a  squeal  excited. 

As  he  struck  his  little  clawses  in  the  ribs 

Of  his  Nibs 
And  cried,  "Rubber,"  as  he  tickled  of  his  ribs. 

That  Amphibian  stopped  gazin' 

With  a  howl  that  was  amazin' 

And  he  flapped  his  neck  so  rapid  that  it  broke. 

Seven  cervicals  were  shattered, 

And  his  dorsals  were  all  scattered. 

He  was  foolish  for  to  rubber  when  he  spoke, 

Poor  old  bloke, 
For  to  rubber  when  the  Pterodactyl  spoke. 

[58] 


Now  the  moral  of  this  poem, 

With  its  somewhat  lengthy  proem, 

Is  Organic  Evolution,  as  they  say, 

The  descendants  of  this  saurus 

Are  the  folks  who  always  bore  us; 

For  they  always  turn  and  rubber  to  this  day, 

So  they  say. 
And  "rubber-necks"  we  call  them  to  this  day. 


Love  at  School. 

Charming  maiden — introduction — 
Never  girl  was  half  so  sweet; 

Drooping  eyelids,  smiles — seduction- 
What  a  charming  maid  to  meet ! 

College  life  is  dull  and  stupid — 
(Books  don't  edify  a  bit) 

By  the  poisoned  shafts  of  Cupid — 
Hit. 

Bills  for  candy  and  for  flowers — 
But  the  game  is  worth  the  price ; 

Dreaming  o'er  my  books  for  hours — 
(But  to  love  is  very  nice) 

Girls  are  winsome  and  elusive. 
Ootsey-ooed  and  turtle-doved, 

By  a  creature  most  exclusive — 
Loved! 

Solemn  warnings — all  unheeded — 
What  is  knowledge  'side  of  love  2 

Others  failed  but  I  succeeded — 
Eyes  just  like  the  stars  above! 

[59] 


Maiden  piquant,  blonde  and  slender — 

Love's  the  only  thing  desired — 
By  the  faculty  unyielding — 
Fired! 


L?  Amour  du  Fresh 

or 
Poetry  as  a  Profession  for  Toung  Men. 

She  was  fair  beyond  expression, 
He  was  but  a  callow  Freshman ; — 
The  rhyme  some  critics  question, 
But  I  do  not  greatly  care. 
She  was  really  rather  pretty, 
As  she  strolled  along  out  Whitney, 
And  so  thought  Master  Sidney, 
That's  rhyming  'em  for  fair ! 

He  doffed  his  cap  in  rapture, 

Though  he  thought  he  would  be  slapped  sure, 

But  instead  she  merely  snapped  "You're 

A  trifle  fast  at  first." 

(This  poetic  game  is  simple 

If  your  brain  is  only  nimble 

Why,  really  it  is  sinful 

To  take  money  for  a  verse.) 

In  the  intervening  seventeen  stanzas,  the  author  de- 
velops the  central  theme,  introducing  a  contrasting  sub- 
plot, concerning  a  Lit.  heeler  and  his  wooing  of  the  Muse, 
and  brings  the  whole  to  a  soul-satisfying  climax.  In  the 
following  epilogue  he  reaches  the  moral : 

[60] 


Though  my  verselet  may  not  soothe  you, 
Still  I  think  that  it  will  prove  you 
That  I've  opened  up  a  new  view 
Of  this  famed  poetic  art. 
If  you  wish  to  be  a  poet 
And  let  the  people  know  it, 
Take  up  your  pen  and  go  it, 
With  a  brave  unflinching  heart. 


On  First  Looking  at  Osborn  Hall. 

Oft  from  the  paths  of  virtue  did  I  fall, 

Where  purple  pigs  and  writhing  snakes  are  seen. 
Round  many  a  smoky  barroom  have  I  been, 

And  heard  hard-boiled  men  for  red  liquor  call, 

And  never  seemed  to  feel  my  hooch  at  all, 
That  gives  most  other  men  an  aching  bean, 
Until  I  staggered  once  across  the  green, 

And  looked  full  in  the  teeth  of  Osborn  Hall. 

Then  felt  I  like  some  devotee  of  rum, 

Who  sees  a  dinosaur  come  down  the  block, 

Or  like  some  poor  D.  T.  afflicted  bum, 

Whom  whining  fiends  and  howling  devils  mock, 

Who  stands  dismayed,  too  weak  to  go  or  come — 
Hooting  among  the  crowds  at  Savin  Rock. 

CYRIL  HUME. 


[61] 


Popular  War  Idyll. 

(As  rendered  at  Poli's.) 

'Each  Crimson  Stripe  in  the  Flag,  Boy." 

"The  bugle  will  call  me  tomorrow," 

Said  a  youth  to  the  girl  at  his  side, 
And  his  heart  was  breaking  with  sorrow 

For  his  weeping,  blushing  bride. 
For  he  had  just  been  recruited 

On  the  day  that  they  were  wed : 
But  an  old  man  arose  and  saluted  (salute) 

And  to  him  proudly  said : 

Refrain. 

"Each  crimson  stripe  in  the  flag,  boy, 

Stands  for  a  soul  that's  gone  above; 
Washington  and  Lee,  and  others,  you'll  agree, 

Died  for  the  country  we  love; 
And  each  silver  star  in  song  and  story 

Puts  a  hero  on  the  honor  roll  of  Fame, 
For  if  you  fall  'neath  the  shade  of  Old  Glory 
(salute) 

Tou  immortalize  your  name!" 

L.  E.  M.  MEYER. 


[62] 


And  Pity  JTis,  'Tis  True. 

To  view  such  hordes  of  students 
Would  make  the  Profs  turn  pale, 
If  all  the  summer  Yale  Men 
Should  really  come  to  Yale. 


Lent. 

For  forty  days,  my  sweet  Clarisse,  for  fun 
Swears  off  on  Huyler's — dances — cards — 

The  Little  Nun. 

For  these  things  care  I  not  a  whit,  but  when 
On  kisses  she  swears  off,  I  sigh — 

I  feel  it  then. 

Could  I  but  hope  Clarisse  would  grant  me  leave 
To  kiss  her  gentle  maiden  hand 

Palm  Sunday  Eve. 

But  though  she  fasts  for  forty  days,  I  fear 
My  sweet  Clarisse  is  fast 

For  all  the  year. 


The  Prom. 

Edmund  Spenser. 

The  Ladie  of  my  loue  atte  last  is  heare. 
Vaine  would  it  bee,  shold  I  tempt  to  recite 
The  joie  of  her  approach.  To  me  more  deare 
Than  Rosy-fingered  Dawn  to  Tithones'  sight. 
But  for  vaine  Beautie  of  her  inward  Spright 
I  ask  not ;  it  sufficeth  that  her  Charms 


By  thoughtless  eyes  are  seen,  for  my  delight 
Is,  dauncing,  streight  t'enfold  her  in  mine  arms, 
And  ever  hold  her  thus,  far  from  alarms. 

Robert  Burns. 

I  and  my  bonnie  lassie 

Ben  the  nicht  to  the  ba', 
And  there  was  not  anither 

Like  her  in  a'  the  ha'. 

As  bonnie  as  the  lassie, 

So  was  the  drink  as  braw. 
But  wae !  It  was  the  strengest 

That  ever  I  ha'  saw. 

And  when  the  dance  was  over, 

I  lookt  for  her  in  vain. 
She  hadna  bided  for  me, 

And  I  maun  gae  hame  alane. 

Irving  Berlin. 

(Chorus.) 

My  dear  (bing,  bing)  is  here  (bang,  biff). 
She  came  way  up  here  from  the  city. 

My  land !  but  she's  grand ! 

She's  pretty — yes,  she's  pretty — and  she's  witty 
(whee). 

She  certainly  looks  good  to  me, 

Floating  'round  that  Armory, 

To  that  brass-band  harmony, 
At  that  Junior  Promenade. 


Edgar  Lee  Masters. 

Why  should  I 

Pay  all  these  expenses'?  Boxes, 

Carriages,  eats,  hotel-bills — they  do  not 

Appeal  to  me. 

Wherefore, 

I  will  buy  one  single  ticket, 

And  attend  the  Prom,  alone, 

And  cut  in  on  other  fellows; 

And  thus 

I  will  save  much  money, 

I  am  a  wise  boy. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

And  I  said :  All  this  is  rot, 

And  the  laws  of  flesh  are  «//, 
And  I  will.  For  who  would  not? 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will. 
And  I  heard  the  call  of  my  blood, 

And  I  tarried  the  whole  night  long, 
And  I  had  my  will,  as  I  would. 

But  now  I  have  seen  my  wrong. 

I  said  I  must  have  my  fling, 

And  they  knew  the  path  I  would  go; 
Yet  no  one  told  me  a  thing 

Of  the  curse  of  an  aching  toe. 
Folks  talk  too  much  of  a  sole 

That  has  callous  grown,  and  hard — 
And  not  enough  of  searing  flesh, 

And  blistered  heels  and  scarred. 

J.  S.  B, 
[65] 


Alone  with  Hay  Fever  at  Any  Summer  Resort, 
A  Propos  of  about  September  20. 

The  trains  are  all  heavy  with  sleepers, 
The  platforms  are  littered  with  trunks; 

The  marshes  are  minus  the  peepers, 
And  traffic  is  moving  in  chunks. 

The  season  for  fishing  is  over, 

The  leaves  trickle  down  from  the  trees; 

While  I  sit  alone  with  the  clover — 
And  sneeze. 

The  curtain  is  down  on  vacation, 

The  windows  are  plastered  with  boards, 

There's  not  any  moonlight  elation  : 
The  people  are  leaving  in  hordes ! 

Alone  with  the  muse  must  I  tarry, 
Alone  with  the  chill  autumn  breeze, 

Without  even  Tom,  Dick  or  Harry, — 
And  sneeze. 

The  boats  are  drawn  up  on  the  beaches, 
The  birds  aeroplane  towards  the  south, 

The  markets  are  flooded  with  peaches, 
We're  having  a  terrible  drouth; 

The  theatres  at  home  in  the  city 
Are  charging  exorbitant  fees, 

While  I  waste  away — more's  the  pity ! — 
And  sneeze ! 

(Sneezing  is  heard  off-stage.) 

G.  M.  M. 
[66] 


Ballade  in  Hope  of  April. 

The  snow  is  slush,  the  stripped  trees  bare ; 

The  sky  the  old  eternal  grey, 
But  something  stirring  in  the  air 

Brings  promise  of  a  better  day; 

Upon  the  elms  the  signs  decay 
That  blazoned  the  last  swimming  meet — 

And  in  the  Cage  the  bat  cracks  gay — 
The  gusts  of  Spring  are  in  the  street! 

The  squirrels  find  each  other  fair, 
The  hurdy-gurdies  start  to  play, 

And  we  have  blood  and  pep  to  spare — 
And  let  our  rubbers  clog  with  clay — 
Shop  windows  flare  with  negligee, 

The  corner  cop  steals  from  his  beat 
To  Tuttle's  many  times  a  day — 

The  gusts  of  Spring  are  in  the  street. 

Though  some  may  scoff  and  some  may  swear 

Let's  be  heroic  anyway! 
And  shed  our  winter  underwear ! 

What  matter  though  soft  airs  delay, 

And  sniffles  choke  us  with  dismay, 
And  coy  winds  slap  our  face  with  sleet? 

There  flies  a  sparrow !  Whoop !  Hooray ! 
The  gusts  of  Spring  are  in  the  street ! 


[67] 


Envoi. 

Princess,  you  love  the  degagee 

And  styles  more  daring  than  discreet — 

Be  careful  as  you  pass  this  way ! 

The  gusts  of  Spring  are  in  the  street! 

STEPHEN  VINCENT  BENET, 


A  Mere  Matter  of  Proposing. 

Nancy,  with  sparkling  eyes,  was  there, 
Dancing  on  those  unrivaled  feet ; 

With  everything  fine  that  women  wear — 
(Furnishings'? — is  that  more  concrete?) 
At  any  rate,  she  was  very  sweet ! 

I  gave  her  my  heart — oh,  bitter  fate ! 
Said  she,  "I  cannot  stand  this  heat" — 
Distinctly  inappropriate. 

Agnes — with  gold,  snow-covered  hair, 

Was  daintily  plodding  through  the  sleet ; 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed — and  I  declare 

The  spring  and  winter  seemed  to  meet. 

I  couldn't  help  but  court  defeat — 
She  laughed,  and  said  with  fearful  weight, 

"Too  bad,  Tom,  don't  you  think  the  street 
Distinctly  inappropriate?" 

Helena  had  a  bewitching  air — 

(This  time  I  vowed  to  be  discreet) 

I  followed  her  to  an  alcove,  where 
She  sat  adorably  complete. 

[68] 


My  heart  skipped  every  other  beat. 
"If  I  were  you,  Tom,  I  would  wait; 
'T would  be,  since  I'm  engaged  to  Pete, 
Distinctly  inappropriate." 

Envoi. 

Proposing,  damsels,  is  a  feat 

Which  I,  for  one,  abominate. 
For  turn-downs  are  to  man's  conceit 
Distinctly  inappropriate. 

JOHN  FARRAR. 


Ballade  of  the  Summer  Girl. 

Some  men  prefer 
Glad  girls  and  free; 
Others  aver 
Solemnity 
Is  best  to  see; 
Some  love  the  small — 
But  as  for  me, 
I  like  them  all ! 

Jane's  face  won't  stir, 
Belle  laughs  with  glee, 
May  scoffs  at  her, 
Anne  hates  all  three — 
Helene,  Mimi, 
The  short,  the  tall, 
Gay,  devotee — 
I  like  them  all. 

[69] 


I  kneel  to  Her! 
Composite  She! 
The  kitten's  purr; 
Spring's  constancy; 
Death's  cruelty; 
She  has  in  thrall. 
— What's  that  to  me? 
I  like  them  all. 

Envoi. 

Princess,  one  plea! 
Let  kisses  fall, 
Thirty  times  three ! 
I  like  them  all ! 


Speaking  Cereally. 

Fair  Harvard,  may  your  vaunted  line, 

Be  e'en  as  cornflakes  in  our  bowl, 
And  when  you  rush,  may  all  your  feet 
Be  like  the  crumbled  shredded  wheat, 
Or  musty  jelly  roll. 

But  should  your  team,  defeating  ours, 

Prove  they're  the  better  football  men, 
We'll  buy  the  oatmeal  and  the  cream, 
You've  but  a  year — so  sweetly  dream; 
The  bowl's  uncracked;  you'll  come  again. 

J.  C.  H.,  JR 


Vacation. 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  IX. 

East  Rock  and  Savin  cold  and  cheerless  stand, 
The  Bowl's  become  a  fine  snow  pudding  mold, 

The  waves  cease  playing — in  an  icy  band — 
No  crews  row  now  to  catch  a  crab  or  cold. 

Hot  chocolate  fills  (and  burns)  the  bill  at  founts, 
Hot  toddies  lurk  behind  the  swinging  door; 

The  wood-fire  flame  a-top  the  chimney  mounts, 
At  home  the  family  pays.  (Heap  on  some  more.) 

Don't  fret,  though  midyears,  threat'ning  direly  hov- 
Er  round,  and  thoughts  of  double  cuts  dismay. 

Oh,  college  youth,  could  maidens  aught  but  love*? 
Join  the  season's  whirl  and  dansant  the. 

Now  all  the  'phone  wires  buzz  with  making  dates, 
There's  much  to  do  and  not  near  time  enough. 

If,  laughing  coy,  the  maiden  hesitates, 
Enjoy  vacation.  Kiss  her.  Call  her  bluff. 

D. 


Seashore  Ballade. 

Upon  the  beach  a  man  and  maid 

Together  walked  beside  the  sea, 
The  ocean  near  their  footsteps  strayed ; 

All  lay  in  deep  solemnity. 

He  whispered  words  of  love,  while  she 
Listened  in  silence  by  the  shore. 

The  waves  heard  all  and  splashed  in  glee; 
They'd  heard  that  same  old  stuff  before! 

The  moon  his  light  upon  them  played. 

The  outcome  he  could  well  foresee. 
For  as  they  wandered  in  the  shade : 

"Dearest,  you  are  the  first,"  said  he, 

"I've  loved.  Now  will  you  marry  me?" 
The  moon  shone  from  above  no  more, 

But  hid  his  face;  laughed  cruelly — 
He'd  heard  that  same  old  stuff  before ! 

The  girl  looked  up,  her  face  dismayed; 

She  quickly  knew  his  pedigree. 
The  outward  evidence  she'd  weighed, 

And  then,  replying  to  his  plea, 

She  answered  him  with  laughter  free: 
"Deceitful  fellows  I  abhor. 

Am  I  the  fourth,  or  number  three?" 
She'd  heard  that  same  old  stuff  before ! 


[72] 


L'Envoi. 

Maidens,  I'm  sure  you'll  all  agree 

That  this  is  no  mere  fairy-lore. 
Wherever  you  have  chanced  to  be, 

You've  heard  that  same  old  stuff  before ! 

LORING  M.  STAPLES, 


My  Remington. 

(After  Wordsworth.) 

My  Remington  stands  on  my  desk ! 
I  gaze,  and  gaze  at  every  key; 
There's  A,  and  B,  and  C,  and  D, 
And  E,  and  F,  and  also  G, 
And  numerals  from  one  to  nine, 
A  period,  a  dollar  sign, 
Parentheses,  a  dash,  a  J, 
Quotation  marks,  a  Z,  a  K. 

They  all  are  at  my  beck  and  call 
In  morning,  afternoon,  or  night ; 
Each  one  will  do  his  little  part — 
Oh,  'tis  an  easy  task  to  write 
When  each  one  does  just  as  he  ought; 
I  plunk,  and  plunk  without  a  thought, 
And  what  doth  most  appeal  to  me 
Is  that  there's  so  much  unity. 

Kind  reader,  if  you'll  only  think, 
My  Remington  will  prove  to  you 
A  model,  guiding  you  through  life, 
Just  as  it  taught  me  lessons  true; 

[73] 


So  place  your  trust  in  God's  great  care, 
And  try  to  do  your  little  share; 
Stay  on  the  job  and  you  will  see — 
Don't  make  a  space  where  $  should  be! 

F.  W.  BRONSON 


The  Music  Plays. 

(Rondeau.) 

The  music  plays,  and  to  and  fro, 

The  dancers  glide,  with  movement  slow — 

Of  future  days  all  unaware, 

For  truly  is  the  scene  not  fair, 
And  long  the  night?  Yes,  even  so. 

As  lightly  as  the  winds  that  blow 
Across  the  grey  moonlighted  snow, 

These  hours  of  joy  pass  by — but  there ! 
The  music  plays. 

Let  dark  night  into  daylight  flow — 
In  here,  where  hooded  lights  beam  low, 
We  dance,  while  perfumes  in  the  air 
The  breezes  toss.  Forget  your  care ! 
What  brings  the  future*?  Who  can  know*? 
The  music  plays. 

J.  W.  BLAIR, 


[74] 


An  Abbreviated  Song. 

Abbreviation  I  despise — 

Each  genius  has  his  whim — 
And  so  when  I  take  exercise 

I  hie  me  to  the  University  Gymnasium. 

If  one  starts  to  abbreviate, 

He  can't  tell  where  he'll  stop — 
The  books  that  I  have  used  of  late, 

Have   come    from    the    Yale   Co-Operative 
Association. 

I  spell  out  every  word  I  use 

Though  Philistines  may  scoff — 
If  you  want  backing  for  my  views, 

Inquire  of  any  Professor,  Assistant  Professor 
or  Instructor. 

But  one  curtailment  would  be  right, 

In  these  sad  times  of  crams, 
Without  much  harm,  I  think  they  might 

Abbreviate  th'  exams. 


Analogy  to  a  Country  Churchyard. 

The  Chapel  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  knowing  herd  winds  slowly  to  Durfee, 

The  plugger  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  Wiser  and  to  me. 

[75] 


Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
To  try  the  paths  that  Law  or  Shelf,  adopt, 

To  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  Branford  Green, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  dropped. 

The  boast  of  Freshmen,  and  the  Soph.'s  disdain, 
The  gleeful  Junior  and  the  Senior  sad, 

Four  years  of  college  and  of  college  reign — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  Grad. 


Her  Answer. 

"Dearest,"  he  whispered  soft  and  low, 
"This  tiny  ring  to  me  pray  lend, 

It  typifies  my  love  for  you, 

For,  like  my  love,  it  has  no  end." 

"I  have  no  rings  to  spare,"  she  said, 

"My  heart  you  have  no  chance  of  winning, 

My  love  to  you  is  like  the  ring 

In  this  respect, — there's  no  beginning." 

E.  L.  M. 


Human  Nature. 

On  Chapel  Street  there  stood  a  fence— 

'Twas  painted  red. 
A  sign  was  placed  upon  the  top, 

"Fresh  paint,"  it  said. 

[76] 


Women,  while  walking  up  the  street, 

Would  on  it  gaze. 
And  saying,  "What  a  pretty  shade !" 

Would  go  their  ways. 

But  all  the  men,  on  strolling  by, — 

By  nature  led, — 
Would  clean  a  finger  silently. 

"It  is,"  they  said. 


A  Ballade  of  Lost  Ladies. 

I  wonder  down  what  primrose  way 

Trips  Olive,  loved  of  Pierson  Hall, 

In  what  celestial  cabaret 

Sings  Gertie,  she  that  held  in  thrall 

The  Hof-Brau  gang? — Oh,  where's  the  small 

Bedimpled  Bobs  who  graced  the  rear 

Of  the  giddy  Globe,  and  loved  us  all  ? 

Where  are  the  girls  of  Freshman  year? 

Where's  Betty  gone  with  her  odd  whims'? 
Where  smile  the  little  trim  brunettes 
That  twinkled  through  the  Sunday  hymns  ? 
Where's  Lois,  fairest  of  coquettes, 
Hope,  Babe  and  Nan — Fate's  marionettes ! 
Where's  Peg,  who  drank  huge  steins  of  beer, 
With  eyes  like  morning  violets'? 
Where  are  the  girls  of  Freshman  year? 

[77] 


Where's  Floss,  who  saw  the  Crimson  win, 
And  showed  the  prettiest  distress, 
Where's  Madge's  proud  patrician  chin, 
And  Edie's  scarlet  evening  dress? — 
Where's  Ruth  with  her  sweet  breathlessness, 
With  tremulous  whisper:  "Love  me,  dear'"? 
With  hands'  light,  sudden,  shy  caress.  .   .  . 
Where  are  the  girls  of  Freshman  year? 

Envoi. 

O  Prince,  ere  Time's  dread  debt  I  pay, 
While  Pan  still  pipes,  and  I  still  hear, 

In  what  bright  meadows  do  they  stray — 
Where  are  the  girls  of  Freshman  year? 

ELLIOT  E.  COHEN, 


The  Lit.  Poet. 

On  his  having  arrived  at  the  age  of  XXIII. 
(  With  regards  to  John  Milton.) 

How  soon  hath  Rhyme,  the  subtle  thief  of  truth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth  year! 

My  budding  days  fly  on  with  full  career : 
Yet  all  my  harvest  naught  but  lemons  shew'th, 
Perchance  the  presence  of  a  wisdom-tooth 

May  make  me  seem  to  manhood  now  so  near ; 

But  still  my  verses  do  much  less  appear 
Than  Keats'  or  Clough's  or  Hunt's  or  other  youth. 

[78] 


Yet,  that  near-poetry  be  rather  slow 

And  that  the  measure  be  not  strictly  even 

In  which  Rhyme  leads  me,  and  the  will  of  Heaven, 

Oh,  tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers ! — Lo, 
For  figures  never  lie — skidoo  for  me: 
My  mournful  numbers  are  just  23! 

LAWRENCE  MASON. 


thoughts  upon  a  Classmate  s  Announcement 
of  His  Engagement. 

So  Jim's  engaged !  Well,  I'll  be  damned, 
I  never  thought  he  loved  the  dames; 

I  always  thought  he  rather  slammed 
Them.  Oh,  you  James! 

The  crazy  boob !  In  college  still ! 

How  does  he  know  he  can  support  her? 
Perhaps  he's  favored  in  some  will, 

Or  she's  some  banker's  daughter. 

(I  wonder  if  I'd  have  a  chance — ) 
Yes,  he's  a  fool — I've  always  said  it. 

(Would  she  say  yes?)  Bill  sure  can  dance! 
(Gosh,  how  I  dread  it!) 

I  wouldn't  be  Jim  for  a  farm! 

(I  wonder  if  she  really  knows?) 
Not  that  I  wish  him  any  harm ! 

(Shall  I  propose?) 

W.  B.  L. 


[79] 


On  Being  Insolvent,  in  the  Middle  of  the  'Term, 

When  I  consider  how  my  cash  is  spent, 
Ere  half  the  term,  in  this  abode  of  bills, 
And  how  reminders,  older  than  the  hills, 

Come  pouring  in,  while  I  have  not  a  cent — 

Fain  would  I  joke  of  money,  say  'tis  Lent, 
But  these  collectors  are  a  lot  of  chills. 
Their  frosty  air  my  brightest  humor  kills ; 

They  smile  not  when  I  say  I'm  "badly  bent." 

The  mail  box  yields  no  gift  of  welcome  check, 
I  telegraph  my  pleas,  but  all  in  vain; 
If  money's  coming,  it  must  be  by  freight. 

I'm  high  and  dry,  a  bleak  financial  wreck; 
And  those  collectors,  melancholy  train, 
Stir  not  a  foot;  they  only  stand  and  wait. 


Warning  to  Heelers. 


ltcfhink  Banks  will  make  the  crew?" 
"No;  he  hasn't  got  enough  pull." 

— Record,  B.  C.  492. 

(With  apologies  to  P.P.  A.) 

When  Homer,  waxing  comic,  raised  a  probe, 
And  at  conditions-as-they-were  desired  to  poke 

Some  fun,  he  stole  from  out  the  book  of  Job 
That  joke. 

[80] 


In  later  years  yon  Cassius  used  to  tell 

The  selfsame  wheeze — and  always  got  a  smile; 

It  had  the  Roman  Punch  jokes  skinned  by — well, 
A  mile. 

John  Milton,  stern,  religious,  and  severe, 
Was  wont  at  certain  times  to  take  a  rest, 

In  which  he'd  fairly  revel  in  this  here 
Now  jest. 

Which  makes  a  pedigree  of  worthy  size, 
And  also  causes  undergrads  to  huff 

Whene'er  they  see  in  print  before  their  eyes 
Such  stuff. 

'THE  EDITORS." 


A  Lit.  Poem. 

Where  are  the  sons  of  Saturn? 
The  sour- faced  sons  of  Saturn? 
(Yes,  where  the  deuce  are  they?) 
But  no !  I  must  not  chew  gum, 
That  way  lies  madness. 
I  must  lie  still  and  look  into 
The  deep,  dank  well  of  Eternity. 
In  the  lacquered  hush  of  an  aching  noon 
The  cormorant  trills  his  lullaby. 
"Yes,  but  Father,  I  love,  I  love!"— 
Pierrot  lay  dead. 

A.W. 


[81] 


Snakes  Cause  a  Lot  of  trouble* 

Clara  was  a  lovely  girl. 

Adolf  was  a  reptile  charmer. 
Not  for  all  the  Orient's  pearl 

Would  he  harm  her  ! 

Proud,  she  scorned  his  heart  that  bled  ! 

Hoped  "his  snakes  would  fricassee  him!" 
Swore  that  "she  would  never  wed 

A  museum  !" 

So  he  laid  a  deadly  plot  ! 

Planted  rattlers  by  a  cliff; 
Where  they'd,  when  she  struck  the  spot, 

Scare  her  stiff  ! 


were  tame  ones,  but  that  night, 
Since  they  lonely  were,  and  hearty, 
Gave  ten  cousins  an  invite 
To  a  party  !  ) 

Clara  came,  the  serpents  hissed, 

She  stood  still  —  dared  not  alarm  them, 

Adolf  rushed  out  to  assist  — 
Tried  to  charm  them  ! 

Then  the  cousins  wrapped  about 

Neck  and  arms  and  pinched  and  poked  him, 
Drove  him  staggering  in  rout 

Almost  croaked  him! 

—  Till,  in  manner  quite  Eurasian, 
Clara  rose  to  the  occasion! 

[82] 


Dragged  the  serpents  off  his  neck 

(Too  polite  to  sting  a  lady!)  ; 
Led  him  to  a  running  beck, 

Where  'twas  shady ! 

Bathed  his  bruises  with  a  sad  eye, 
Kissed  him.  Said,  "I  love  you,  Addy !" 

While  the  snakes  began  to  hum, 
Low,  "Ta  turn  ta-ta !  Ta  turn—" 

Moral — Strategy  oft  fails ! 

True  love  always  turns  the  scales! 

Moral  fwo — All  snakes  are  not 
So  polite  as  Clara's  lot.  .  .  . 

Chloe,  shall  we  tie  the  knot4? 

STEPHEN  VINCENT  BENET. 


Brutus  Cassius. 

Young  Brutus  Cassius  came  to  Yale, 

He  was  quite  quisque  puer. 
But  Rome  rejoices  now,  they  say, 

It  is  one  Roman  fewer. 

He  thought  he  was  a  devilum, 

A  bonus  magnus  homus, 
And  cried,  when  he  came  home  at  night, 

"Where  is  my  hic-haec-domus?" 

[83] 


He  stagged  the  Talae  Promenade — 
The  girls  thought  him  cutorum — 

He  wore  a  cui  culpa  vest 

And  Frank's  eight-buck  bootorum. 

Examinations  spelled  a  "finis" — 
He  was  no  more  required. 

And  like  a  Roman-candle  stick, 
Was  Brutus  Cassius  fired. 


J.  S.  R. 


Ballade  of  My  Roommate. 

I  had  a  coat.  It  was  of  the  best, 
Beautifully  fashioned  for  evening  wear, 
Tailored  by  Eck  and  by  Rosey  pressed. 
(Read  the  ads  if  you  really  care!) 
But  now  my  heart  is  filled  with  despair. 
A  terrible  grief  has  come.  For  see ! 
I  cannot  find  the  thing  anywhere — 
My  roommate  stole  it  away  from  me ! 

I  had  a  wallet.  A  small-sized  chest 

Wouldn't  contain  half,  I  declare, 

Of  the  shekels  that  in  that  wallet  were  pressed- 

It  made  me  feel  like  a  millionaire. 

But  now  it  has  vanished  in  thin,  thin  air: 

One  little  party,  one  evening's  spree 

Took  it.    You  ask  me:  why  should  I  care? — 

My  roommate  stole  it  away  from  me ! 


I  had  a  car.  With  the  family  crest 

And  my  initials  engraven  there. 

I  owned  it  one  year,  and  not  an  arrest 

Had  come  my  court  record  to  impair. 

But  now  it  is  locked  in  the  sheriff's  lair, 

And  I  am  lamenting  bitterly, 

And  paying  the  fines.  Do  you  call  that  square  ? — 

My  roommate  stole  it  away  from  me ! 

Now  coat,  car,  wallet — I  do  not  care ! 

Nothing  they  were  or  will  ever  be. 
But — I  had  a  girl :  she  was  passing  fair, 

My  roommate  stole  her  away  from  me. 

T.  C.  CHUBB. 


Harvard  Changes  to  a  Richer  Red — 
"Arterial  Rlood." 

Cambridge,  Mass.    March  5: 

Harvard  University  is  no  longer  represented  by  the 
famous  color  of  crimson.  The  Corporation  decided  that 
there  were  too  many  variations  used  on  the  Harvard  flags 
and  banners  and  have  officially  adopted  a  new  color — 
"arterial  blood."  It  is  of  much  richer  red  than  the  former 
color,  appearing  to  be  of  a  purple  shade. 

Fling  out  the  Crimson  banners 
Into  the  old  ash  pail, 
The  Harvard  Corporation 
Thinks  them  a  trifle  pale. 

[85] 


Chorus : 

"Arterial  blood,  arterial  blood, 

Red  corpuscles  galore," 

Shall  be  our  watchword,  fellows, 

Till  the  beefsteak  is  no  more. 

The  crimson  was  sufficient 
Before  the  college  grew, 
But  as  we're  getting  richer 
Grows  our  color  richer  too. 
Chorus : — 

Each  warrior  of  the  gridiron 
Will  court  the  vicious  blows, 
To  see  his  college  colors 
Come  streaming  from  his  nose. 
Chorus : — 

Each  pusher  of  the  scalpel 
In  our  dear  Medic  school, 
Will  dabble  in  our  colors 
As  he  plies  his  gruesome  tool. 
Chorus : — 

Then  hail  to  the  great  Beef  Trust, 
And  to  their  gory  halls, 
With  our  new  colors  blazoned 
On  windows,  floors,  and  walls. 
Chorus : — 

(Slowly  and  with  great  feeling} 
Let  auricles  and  ventricles 
Unanimously  throb, 
To  keep  old  Harvard's  colors 
Forever  on  the  job. 
[86] 


Lime  Rickey. 

In  New  York  there  once  lived  a  Col., 
Who  published  a  blackmailing  Jol., 

When  called  into  court, 

The  facts  he'd  distort, 
And  when  cornered  he  lied  most  infol. 


The  Snake. 

My  coiffure  is  neatly  bisected 

With  the  straightest  of  ruler-like  parts. 
This,  all  by  itself,  was  detected 

In  smashing  up  feminine  hearts. 
I  slick  my  hair  down  with  the  grease  of  a  goose, 

Which  is  proof  against  wobble  or  shake. 
My  manners  are  charming;  my  morals  are  loose. — 

Sssssssssss — I'm  a  snake. 

My  line  is  both  unctuous  and  oily. 

I  sparkle  with  jewels  of  wit. 
When  I  smile  at  a  maiden,  she  coyly 

Falls  into  my  arms  in  a  fit. 
I've  got  savoir  faire,  and  I've  learned  to  converse 

While  I  smoke,  gurgle  tea,  and  eat  cake. 
They  say  that  my  habits  are  shady  or  worse. 

Sssssssssss — I'm  a  snake. 

I  never  fall  into  the  butter. 

I  balance  my  hat  on  my  nose. 
When  I  see  a  good-looker  I  flutter — 

A  butterfly  after  a  rose. 

[87] 


I'm  caution  itself,  but  know  when  to  be  bold. 

When  the  chaperons  view  me  they  quake. 
I'm  a  shot  in  the  dark;  I'm  a  wolf  in  the  fold. 

Sssssssssss — I'm  a  snake. 

CYRIL  HUME. 


November  24. 

Banners  that  glow  with  a  sunset  flare — 
Banners  that  mock  at  the  blue,  blue  sky ! 
Wan,  tense  faces  and  faces  fair 
Massed  in  the  stands  with  the  contest  nigh ! 
Slogans  that  shatter  the  clouds  on  high — 
Echoing  thunder  across  the  vale — 
Comrades,  how  proudly  our  colors  fly ! 
What  will  a  victory  mean  to  Yale? 

Gridiron-harnessed  your  henchmen  dare 
Here  to  the  utmost  to  fight  or  die. 
Thunder  of  cheers  shakes  thy  omened  air; 
Hosts  roar  their  challenge  and  hosts  defy ! 
Guerdon  of  heart's  beat  and  tender  eye, 
Meet  for  the  victors  in  leathern  mail, 
Sway  in  Fate's  scales  as  the  halves  lag  by — 
What  will  a  victory  mean  to  Yale? 

Down,  where  the  coveted  chalk  lines  glare 
Menace  to  moleskin,  and  hopes  belie, 
Well  have  the  blue  heroes  borne  their  share, 
Trampled  and  beaten  the  foemen  lie ! 
[88] 


Or — is  it  seeming?  Will  Fortune  cry 
"Habet"  at  last,  and  the  Old  Guard  fail, 
Victory  wrested  from  victors  nigh  ? — 
What  will  a  victory  mean  to  Yale*? 

Envoy. 

Yale  will  fight  cleanly  and  fight  it  fair 
Never  to  rest  till  the  Blue  prevail — 
(Hark  to  the  crash  of  yon  frenzied  blare!) 
— What  will  a  victory  mean  to  Yale ! 


An  Ottoman  Oracle. 

Old  Nasr-ed-din  Hoja,  an  effulgent  theologian, 

Once  lived  in  far-off  Turkey  where  by  work  he  earned 

some  pelf; 

Then  studied  occult  sciences,  with  eastern  thought  appli- 
ances, 
And  there  learned,  so  the  story  goes,  to  orient  himself. 

A  master  of  parenesis  and  mind  dynamogenesis, 

He  worked  out  every  question  that  suggestion  could 
evolve. 

But  once  this  metaphysical  disciple  met  a  physical 
Phenomenon  the  hendy  old  Effendi  could  not  solve. 

While  walking  in  the  market-place,  with  practiced  patri- 
archate pace, 

A  roast  of  meat  he  tested,  and  invested  in  two  okes, 
Which  proved,  cooked  with  economy,  a  triumph  in  gas- 
tronomy,— 

A    sight    which    that    appealing   hungry-feeling   tone 
evokes. 

[89] 


The  prospect  turned  his  slavey's  head.  "Roast  ribs  of  beef, 

dish  gravy!"  said 

The  maid,  as  all  excited,  she  invited  in  her  crew. 
They  feast,  nor  does  the  ball  let  up,  till  everything  is  all 

eat  up, 

And  nothing  greets  the  master  but  disaster  when  they're 
through. 

Ere  long  they  hear  the  Hoja  call  in  accents  paragogical. 
"Who  ate  my  roast  up*?"  called  he,  but  they  all  denied 

it  flat. 

Then  seeking  with  simplicity  to  cover  her  duplicity, 
The  maid,  who  feared  discredit,  went  and  said  it  was 
the  cat. 

Then  said  the  Trojan  physicist,  "I'll  let  a  sloe  gin  fizz 

assist 

My  intellect  to  wrestle  with  your  mesolithic  jokes." 
And  then  the  thought  occurred  to  him  to  weigh  the  cat, 

which  purred  to  him. 
It  tipped  the  balance  nicely  and  precisely  at  two  okes ! 

Confused  in  his  perplexity,  his  concepts  gained  complex- 
ity, 

Nor  did  his  diagnosis  or  psychosis  aid  him  much. 
"Be  this  a  two-oke  cat,"  said  he,  "where  can  my  meat  be 

at,"  said  he, 

"Or  if,  perchance,  this  is  the  meat,  where  is  the  cat,  as 
such?" 


[90] 


<? he  Modest  Poet. 

"Dear  Jack,"  said  Kate,  with  eyes  of  blue, 

"To  tell  the  truth  I  cannot  see 
Why  you  don't  make  a  verse  or  two 

Which  I  can  say  is  all  for  me." 
"My  love,"  said  Jack,  "that  would  I  do 

If  I  did  not  with  fear  foresee 
That  if  I  made  a  verse  to  you, 

It  might  make  you  averse  to  me." 


Habet. 

I  was  one  of  many  men 

Danced  and  laughed  with  her  tonight; 

Shall  we  ever  meet  again? 

Known  before  but  not  till  then 
First  unfolded  on  my  sight — 
I  was  one  of  many  men. 

Moonlight  on  the  misty  fen, 
Dim  suggestion  of  delight, 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again  ? 

Did  she  guess,  I  wonder,  when 
Flowed  the  rose  across  the  white*? 
I  was  one  of  many  men ! 

And  I  pass  from  out  her  ken, 
Unremark'd,  forgotten — quite — 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again? 

[91] 


Dull  the  brain  and  vain  the  pen. 
Only  one  refrain  I  write ! — 
7  was  one  of  many  men, 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again? 


Rondeau. 

In  other  days,  when  belle  and  beau 

On  pointed  pirouetting  toe, 

Through  minuet  and  Morris  vied 
To  celebrate  the  Christmas-tide, 

The  salons  bloomed  with  mistletoe. 

Coquette  Belinda  passed  below 
With  dainty  mincing  step  and  slow, 
Sir  Plume  in  satin  at  her  side, 
In  other  days. 

He  kissed  her  pretty  lips?  Ah — no! 
With  courtly  grace  he  bowed  full  low, 

And  kissed  her  tender  hand,  and  sighed. 

— Not  so  were  I  by  Helen's  side! 
For  that,  you  know,  was  long  ago, 
In  other  days. 


[92] 


Josh,  Jane,  and  Jake;  or  tfhe  Wooer  s  Woe. 

Ho,  ho,  for  the  hayfield  now ! 

A  loony  lad  and  a  spoony  maid 

Back  of  the  old  barn  sat  in  the  shade. 

He  almost  died  for  glee,  haw  haw, 

And  grabbed  her  hands,  when  she  tickled  his  jaw 

With  a  piece  of  straw — 

Haw,  haw,  for  the  hayfield  now ! 

So  he  gave  her  a  smack  and  a  hug  half  stifling, 
Till  she  cooed  in  his  arms,  "Now,  Jake,  you  ain't 

trifling?'— 

Then  'round  the  corner  romped  pa  a-rifling: 
So  Jacob  up-jumped  and  dumped  his  wifeling, 
Oh,  oh,  for  the  hayfield  now, 
Oh,  oh,  for  the  hayfield  now ! 

No  time  to  explain  that  he  wanted  to  marry ; 
Old  Farmer  Josh  said  he'd  better  not  tarry 
Or  he'd  get  no  boot,  but  a  bullet,  by  Harry ! 
So  with  hands  behind  in  protective  fashion 
Over  the  spot  fathers  lay  the  lash  on, 
Jacob  escaped  from  that  farmer's  passion — 
Ow,  out  to  the  hayfield  now ! 

HOWARD  S.  BUCK. 


[93] 


Ballade  of  the  Favorite  Briar. 

I 

When  with  the  dusk  the  book  is  laid  aside 

And  round  the  room  I  glance  with  aimless  eye, 
No  thought  have  I  of  toil ;  but  let  Ease  guide 

My  spirit,  and  with  her  behests  comply. 

She  bids  me  for  a  little  while  defy 
The  pleasant  threats  of  importuning  Care, 

Light  up  my  pipe  and  dream  with  half-closed  eye 
While  fragrant  smoke-wreaths  scent  the  quiet  air. 

II 

Sometimes  a  letter  comes,  and  satisfied 

With  thrice  re-reading,  for  my  old  ally, 
The  black  briar  on  the  table  by  my  side, 

I  reach,  and  we  together  glorify 

An  hour  with  thoughts  of  Her — thoughts  that  outfly 
Old  Time  himself,  and  paint  the  future  fair. 

— Thus  blissfully  we  muse,  my  pipe  and  I, 
While  fragrant  smoke-wreaths  scent  the  quiet  air. 

Ill 

My  every  knotty  question  I  confide 

To  that  good  briar;  when  we  two  apply 

Our  minds  to  carking  troubles,  we  decide 
Full  soon,  or  else  we  idly  pass  them  by 
To  puff  care  free — Forgot  is  every  sigh, 

For  only  happiness  is  near  whene'er 
I  light  my  pipe  and  lazy,  peaceful,  lie 

While  fragrant  smoke-wreaths  scent  the  quiet  air. 


[94] 


Envoy. 

Prince,  wouldst  them  see  thy  every  burden  fly 
And  leave  thee,  for  a  little,  free*?  Prepare 

All-wondrous  Nicotine  to  deify 

While  fragrant  smoke-wreaths  scent  the  quiet  air. 


Tears  End. 

O'er  the  Campus  night  is  stealing;  Campus  lights  gleam 
in  the  mist; 

Quietly  the  dusk-dews  falling  rim  the  grass  with  amethyst. 

Statues  cast  their  hazy  shadows:  lights  are  glinting;  win- 
dows gleam ; 

Strains  of  music  float  from  Berkeley,  like  a  song  within 
a  dream. 

Distant,  cold  the  white  moon  rises,  painting  towers  with 

silver  light.  .  .  . 
Moon-gleams  writhe  between  elm  branches.  June  breathes 

quietly  at  night. 
On  the  fence  lit  pipes  are  glowing.  Some  one  calls  up  to 

a  friend; 
Strolling  students  scrape  the  sidewalks — 

The  year  draws  nearer  to  its  end, 
Drawing  sadly  into  dreams  with  other  years  that  fleetly 

fly, 

Drifted  to  the  Land  of  Mem'ries.  .  .  .  Well,  old  year, 
good-bye,  good-bye! 

J.  W.  BLAIR. 


[95] 


In  Te  Olde  Dayes. 

In  ye  olde  dayes  of  Camelot, 

Y-cladde  in  coate  of  maile, 
Sir  Modred  unto  Princetonne  wente — 

Sir  Lancelot  to  Yaile ! 

There  cache  for  footballe  didde  go  oute, 

And  tried  to  make  ye  squadde, 
To  winne  a  letter  for  hys  shielde, 

To  sporte  aboute  ye  quadde ! 

And  thenne  Sir  Lancelot's  roommate  broughte 

Faire  Guinevere  to  ye  game, 
To  see  yonge  Lancelot  touchdowns  make — 

And  winne  hymself  muche  faime. 

Now  Modred  was  a  jealous  manne. 

He  played  at  Princetonne's  guarde ; 
He  said:  "I'll  smash  Sir  Lancelot!" 

— Looke  oute,  the  guy  is  harde ! 

But  Lancelot  y-cared  not, 

He  skyrted  ye  lef te  ende, 
And  thyrtie  yardes  for  touchdown  went, 

Ye  Princetonne  team  to  bende. 

So  after  gaime  faire  Guinevere 

Said:  "Lancelot,  you're  ye  kidde!" 

And  ever  after  lyked  him  well, 
— Odzooks !  I'll  saye  she  didde ! 

T.  C.  CHUBB. 


[96] 


Hard  Luck. 

We  had  to  laugh  the  other  day  at  Will ; 

He'd  danced  a  girl  around  till  overpowered 
When  on  her  back  he  waved  a  dollar  bill ! 

The  stag  line  gasped,  and  gaped,  and  looked  its  fill, 

While  William  o'er  her  shoulder  fiercely  glowered. 
We  had  to  laugh  the  other  day  at  Will ! 

They  stumbled  round  again,  we  watching  still, 
He  spreading,  as  his  features  slowly  soured, 
Upon  her  back  a  new  five-dollar  bill ! 

We'd  all  been  dead  if  wicked  looks  could  kill 

As  nice  again  he  passed  where  each  man  cowered ; 
We  had  to  laugh  the  other  day  at  Will ! 

His  bids  for  aid  were  finally  raised  until 

I  tagged  him  while  the  storm  of  insults  showered — 
Took  from  her  back  a  twenty-dollar  bill ! 

L'Envoi. 

Brand  me  a  fool,  but  never  call  me  coward, 
And  at  my  act  of  bravery  may  you  thrill ! 

I  longed  e'er  that  fell  evening  grew  late-houred 
To  give  him  back  his  twenty-dollar  bill ! 

DAVID  G.  CARTER. 


[97] 


/  Had  Never  Had  It. 

I  had  kissed  her;  I'd  embraced  her; 

I  had  sat  beside  her,  there, 
Full  an  hour  and  a  quarter; 

I  was  smoothing  back  her  hair. 

When  she  gently  queried :  "Dearest, 

Do  you  think  there'll  be  a  risk 
If  I  visit  Sue,  tomorrow?" 

Quick,  I  asked,  in  accents  brisk : 

"What,  my  darling,  is  the  danger?" 
Then  she  whispered,  clinging  near : 

1  Tve  been  nursing  brother  William  : 
He  has  yellow-fever,  dear." 

N.  A.  B. 


Musings  of  a  Discreet  Bachelor. 

Young  Orpheus,  the  myths  declare, 
Once  rivalled  Messrs.  Barnum-Bailey- 

The  animals  would  dance  whene'er, 
He  strummed  his  Grecian  ukulele. 

Eurydice  fell  for  him  hard 

(She  was  the  fairest  of  the  ladies), 
He  always  held  the  winning  card, 

It  seemed,  until  she  strayed  to  Hades. 

[98] 


To  get  her  back  he  had  to  lead 

Her  out  without  once  gazing  on  her  : 

A  mighty  trying  task  indeed, 

With  her  a  reg'lar  primer  donner. 

The  point  I  wish  to  draw  is  this : 

A  glance  DID  pass  between  the  lovers, 

And  for  that  glimpse  he  lost  his  miss— 
For  sale :  One  new  twin  bed  and  covers. 

Of  those  who  lamped  Medusa's  locks— 
And  goodness  knows  she  wasn't  pretty — 

They  gathered  in  sufficient  rocks 
To  build  a  wall  around  the  city. 

Pandora  looked  beneath  the  lid 

Despite  her  mother's  earnest  warning. 

Whoever  thought  that  what  she  did 

Would  put  New  Jersey  into  mourning'? 

The  Bible  states  that  Mrs.  Lot, 
A  lady  somewhat  prone  to  staring, 

Just  HAD  to  look  when  she  should  not — 
And  promptly  was  a  kippered  herring. 

Godiva's  case  is  plain  enough 
To  point  the  moral  of  my  ditty ; 

She  pulled  the  back-to-nature  stuff 
On  Main  Street,  Ascalon,  her  city. 

The  Board  of  Aldermen  then  cry : 
"We'll  do  our  level  best  to  hide  her; 

Let  no  one  turn  the  naked  eye 
Upon  the  ditto  bareback  rider." 

[99] 


There  is  just  one  guy  in  the  place 

Who  can't  resist  the  keen  suspense  or 

Something,  gazes  on  her  face — 
(And  more,  deleted  by  the  censor.) 

Blinded  is  he  for  his  rude  act, 

Loud  are  the  groans  of  pain  he  utters. 

While  all  the  rest  display  more  tact 

And  stay  indoors  behind  closed  shutters. 

In  face  of  every  gruesome  tale 
Of  looking,  meaning,  demolition, 

MY  health  and  eyesight  do  not  fail 
Because  of  last  night's  exhibition. 

But  I'll  not  take  another  chance, 

Thus  warned  by  story,  myth,  and  ballad : 

Next  time  a  woman  pulls  that  dance 
I'll  keep  my  eyes  upon  my  salad. 

S.  V.  HOPKINS. 


Jones. 

Jones,  '95,  sits  in  the  stands 

And  cheers  for  Yale  with  clenching  hands, 

He  pleads  for  touchdown  and  for  score, 

Just  as  he  pled  in  '94, 

When  men  in  Blue  at  his  commands, 

The  Black  lines  tore.  .  .  . 

Jones,  '95. 

[  100  ] 


Jones,  '21,  is  fighting  hard, 

He  makes  the  team  gain  every  yard 

It  can.  He  knows  his  dad  is  there, 

And  he  must  tear 

For  gains,  though  battle-scarred. 

He's  scrapping  square, 

Jones,  '21. 

After  the  game  there  is  a  pair 
Who  drink  and  smoke,  without  a  care. 
The  game  is  won,  the  scrap  is  done — 
J°Nes,  '95  JoneS, '21. 


W.  BENTON, 


Fussing  the  Game. 

You  look  so  sweet;  I've  never  seen 
Such  eyes  as  you  have,  little  queen, 
The  violets  upon  your  breast 
Blush  purple  joy,  for  they  are  blessed — 
Hey,  there,  you  kid,  a  minute  stop, 
Give  us  two  pints  of  lemon  pop ! 

I  think  the  blue  within  the  skies 

Is  jealous  of  your  azure  eyes; — 

The  drooping  lilies  sorry  stand 

Before  the  whiteness  of  your  hand 

And  when  you  blush,  the  roses  frown — 

You  mutt  in  front  there,  please  sit  down ! 

[101] 


The  music  of  a  Brahms  is  heard 
When  your  voice  says  a  little  word. 
The  beams  of  sun  that  fill  the  air 
Are  loath  to  leave  your  golden  hair ; 
I  see  your  smile;  my  soul  is  stilled — 
The  umpire's  mad.  Let  him  be  killed ! 


J.  W.  BLAIR. 


Vision. 

When  Herbert  meets  a  girl,  his  eyes 
Stray  shyly  down  to  where  her  feet — 
And  maybe — when  the  winds  arise — 
An  ankle  or  a  slender  limb 
His  eager  gaze  may  haply  greet — 
And  that  is  all  I'll  say  for  him ! 

When  Harry  meets  a  girl  his  glance 
Efficiently  leaps  to  her  lip — 
Prophetic  gaze !  For  soon,  perchance 
His  eyes  alone  need  not  rest  there, 
But  his  long  arm  may  gently  slip 
About  her  and — it's  rude  to  stare ! 

When  I  met  you,  my  loved  one,  though, 

My  vision  swam  with  more  than  these — 

I  peered  into  your  eyes — and  lo ! 

I  saw  the  glory  of  the  night, 

Felt  on  my  cheek  the  Olympian  breeze, 

And  walked  among  the  gods  of  light. 

J.  A.  THOMAS, 
[102] 


The  Modern  Way. 

Lovely  night! 
Crescent  moon, 
Situation 
Opportune ; 
Ruby  lips, 
Slight  mustache, 
Combination 
In  a  flash. 
Maiden  speaks 
Whene'er  she  can, 
Softly  gurgles, 
"Naughty  man." 
Hesitates — 
Whispers  then 
"Be  a  naughty 
Man  again!" 

M.  K.  S. 


Epilogue. 

There,  gentlemen,  the  play  is  done — 

Don't  hurry  from  your  seats  too  fast! 
Though  many  a  play  is  yet  to  run, 

This  donning  of  the  paint's  our  last, 
Recount  a  moment,  while  you  sit, 

The  acts,  the  lines,  we've  parried  here, 

In  loyalty  to  our  calling. 
And  smile  if  any  gibe  has  hit, 

And  clap  a  bit,  for  smiles  are  dear, 

While  yet  the  curtain's  falling. 


There,  gentlemen,  the  book  is  through, 

Wait  just  a  moment  ere  you  close, 
Such  as  it  was,  'twas  writ  for  you, 

In  pictures,  poetry  and  prose. 
Turn  back  a  moment,  look  awhile, 

And  show  your  pleasure  by  a  look, 

If  something's  more  than  clever, 
For  that  which  makes  This  Morning  smile, 

Tomorrow  deems  a  riddle  book — 
While  you  go  on  forever ! 

There,  gentlemen,  the  dance  is  done, 

The  song  is  sung,  the  cup  is  drained, 
Though  many  a  dance  was  unbegun, 

And  many  a  cup  and  song  remained ! 
Just  try  your  mem'ry,  hum  a  bar, 

Above  the  shuffle  in  the  aisle — 

If  one  is  worth  recalling — 
They're  all  forgotten'?  So  they  are — 

Well,  sentiment  is  out  of  style, 

E'en  when  the  curtain's  falling! 


J.  G.  R, 


Adieu. 

"Bottoms  up" — with  a  laugh ! 
Lads,  we've  made  our  day  a  true  one. 
Not  a  dull  one — not  a  blue  one — 
Had  our  fling  of  jest  and  chaff. 

[  104] 


"Bottoms  up!"  Here  we  stand 
'Round  the  board  where  we  have  reveled. 
And  no  pessimist,  bedeviled 
By  dull  care,  has  ta'en  a  hand. 

"Bottoms  up!"  Life  we've  found 
Sunshine,  fellowship,  and  laughter. 
Let  us  face  the  grim  Hereafter, 
Clinking  for  another  round. 

"Bottoms  up !"  This  our  mood — 
Rain  or  sunshine — joy  or  sorrow — 
Let  what  will  come  on  the  morrow — 
Every  hour,  we've  found  it  good! 

"Bottoms  up!"  This  our  creed — 
Open  heart  and  laughter  mellow ! 
Every  lad  who  loves  his  fellow 
Is  the  lad  for  us  indeed ! 

"Bottoms  up!"  Faith,  'tis  small — 
This  mote  world  where  we've  our  being! 
Then  laugh,  lads,  no  ill  foreseeing, 
For  a  laugh's  the  best  of  all. 

"Bottoms  up!"  "Finis"  write 
O'er  our  page  of  Fun  and  Folly, 
In  the  book  of  Joy — But  jolly 
Lads  shall  take  our  seats  tonight. 

"Bottoms  up!"  Sails  unfurled, 

To  our  betters  we  resign  her — 

Our  brave  barque.  Long  o'er  the  brine  her 

Keel  has  borne  us  down  the  world. 

[105] 


"Bottoms  up!"  One  last  toast — 
Write  our  epitaph  serenely- 
Joyed  they  keenly.  Laughed  they  cleanly. 
In  their  span  they  lived  their  most. 

"Bottoms  up!" — Every  cup! 
Best  and  last,  lads,  shake  each  rafter, 
From  your  hearts,  with  joyous  laughter. 
"Nous  Y  SOMMES" — "Bottoms  up!" 

WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET. 


[106] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 

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4.4  w 

NOV  1  6  2001 

U.  C.  BERKELEY 


,YC   14181 


646534 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


